


Glitter and Misunderstandings

by Torius Armitage (VictoriaSkyeMarsters)



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Happy Ending, Human!Magnus, Lots of glitter, M/M, Pining, Slow Burn, Waistcoats, how is Alec so beautiful?, how is it possible?, pride and prejudice au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-25
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-10-10 13:11:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 42,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10438446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VictoriaSkyeMarsters/pseuds/Torius%20Armitage
Summary: He had tried. When he was nearer Clary’s age, he had not held back in his efforts to be wooed, but whenever the courtship took its turn for the serious and permanent, Magnus would retreat, realizing he felt empty inside in regards to the suitor. And he would not settle for emptiness. He yearned for genuine, overwhelming, inescapable love, like the heroines and heroes of the novels he consumed. Why sentence oneself to a life absent of magic? But Magnus was learning, after years of lackluster options, that the magic he sought, in his world anyway, was nowhere to be found.--In other words, Pride and Prejudice drenched in glitter.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Dame Dayo Day, who, like me, CANNOT get over their love. 
> 
> This story keeps close to the 2005 Pride and Prejudice movie (super duper close), because we needed Alec in billowing jackets and waistcoats. And Magnus needed those things too. However, I am no Jane Austen expert, so please don't be offended by my inevitabe inaccuracies. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy! xoxo

Magnus’ footsteps were light on the sun-warmed stones as he made his way across the field behind the house. His novel’s yellowed pages were sprawled upon his palms, his fingers grasping the worn edges, their tension elevating as his eyes danced over the climax of the story. In respect for the final words, Magnus came to a halt, his progression to the house’s backdoor wanting only for a final few steps. Shutting his eyes in tandem with the book, he breathed in, tasting the bittersweet ending on his tongue. Oh, how he cherished his stories, the wild worlds dwelling within crisp parchments. Inked narrations were akin to lifeblood to Magnus, who strove every day to find his own story. And if his eyes were delicately misted with the tumult of emotions following the conclusion of a beloved tale, no one perceived it, for Magnus could spy the members of his family through the dusty windowpanes, and all were presently occupied.

Scurrying about the kitchen, making enough noise to reach Magnus’ ears where he stood, was one half of his guardianship, whipping at eggs in a bowl as if they’d done him some terrible wrong. Beyond the slight figure’s culinary assault, Magnus noted the open sacks of flour and sugar. Raphael claimed he loved to bake, and yet the act itself always presented itself as a battle to the death. A streak of white was left behind on a sweaty brow as Raphael dragged his wrist across it, and Magnus turned his head to the next window, where the second half could usually be found. 

Luke was seated in his reading chair; the necessary spectacles perched on the tip of his nose as he thumbed through a substantial text. They were alike in their love of reading, Magnus and Luke, though dissimilar in most every other regard. Where Luke was stoically solid, a handsome statue of a man, Magnus felt himself fluid, flowery, not stiff or stifled. Not to say they did not find one another’s company agreeable. Between his two guardians, Magnus nearly always found himself reaching for Luke when he had need. The man was comforting in his stalwartness, and far less volatile than Raphael, with his whipped-up eggs and, more often than not, frenzied nerves. 

A high-pitched cry caused Magnus to lift his chin, angling dark eyes upward. Through the top window, peering through to his own bedroom, he could see slim silhouettes rummaging through his clothes chest. Magnus would be more irked to see his siblings rifling through his belongings, at the shapes of scarves and ruffles being tossed haphazardly over petite backs, were this particular affront not an everyday occurrence. As it was, Magnus was in a constant state of picking up after Simon and Clary, one of whom should know better, the other of whom knew better and made a mess regardless, because such was his nature. 

Magnus narrowed his charcoaled eyes at the sight of a favorite polka dotted vest hitting the window, and then Simon and Clary were running from the room. When Magnus could no longer follow their retreat with his eyes, he honed his ears for the inevitable pounding of heavy feet slapping the stairs. His lips quirked when he heard the stomping and his eyes darted once more toward Raphael, whose head was raised at the noise, eyebrows high on his flour-smudged forehead. In the neighboring window, Luke rolled his eyes, but then stuck his head back down into his book. Magnus clutched his own book, finished and treasured, to his chest, and steeled himself for the remainder of his day, which would be filled to the brim with chores and chatter. He allowed himself a sigh, straightened his shoulders, and flounced through the back door, where a battered splattering of abused egg mixture splashed his cheek.

Raphael’s lips parted upon Magnus’ entry, but the storm of wild red curls and boisterous squealing dragged his attention away. Raphael and Magnus both turned to peruse the younger wards standing in the doorway, gasping with laughter. Clary, sweet Clary, clung to her older brother, her eyes shining with the simple delight of youthful pleasure, like playing dress-up in Magnus’ clothes, which he spent his sacred free time and coin enhancing. A sequined emerald scarf was twisted around Clary’s white throat like a vine, making her ginger shade of tendrils too remarkable for Magnus to chide her for, once again, borrowing without asking. Her smile was bright and her cheeks were pink when she turned her face toward Magnus. 

“Finally, you’re back,” she said, and her voice was sugary sweet. “Simon said I had no occasion to wear sequins today, and I told him that was ridiculous.” Her elbow playfully found its way into the ribs of the young man beside her, who was raking his fingers through a tousle of dark hair amassing his head. When Magnus tipped his head inquiringly at his younger sibling, Simon’s smile spread over his face, endearingly crooked. The following shrug of his shoulders alluded to equal measures guilt and amusement. 

“We’re helping Raphael make bread,” Simon argued, smile still wide. “That doesn’t exactly entice a ‘sparkle’ vibe.” He ignored Clary’s narrowing eyes and focused on Magnus, his fingers spreading in a feign of innocence. “I also told her you wouldn’t appreciate flour all over your things,” he said, a hand finding its way to his hip as he released a satisfied puff of air. “See? You know I always have your back, Mags.”

Magnus cringed at the nickname, but felt his traitorous lips curving into the smile that always fell into place within Simon’s presence. “As usual, I trust you with my clothes as I would trust you with my life,” Magnus said, crossing a hand sarcastically over his heart. “But I must come down on the side of my darling Clary, who looks so divine in green sequins it would be a crime to insist upon their removal.” 

Clary clapped her hands together and rushed toward Magnus, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him down for a swift peck on his cheek. “Thank you, Magnus,” she whispered at his ear. When she began to pull away, he stopped her with a gentle hand clutched at her wrist. 

“Don’t get flour on my scarf, Biscuit,” he whispered. Clary had the sense to look embarrassed as she straightened the scarf around her neck. They both knew she would end up getting something on it; she always did and Magnus always let her wear what she wished of his anyway. He patted her head, his eyes trailing over the strip of material that had once hanged miserably over a peg in the fabric shop. Magnus had brought it home and doctored it to perfection, and now it was beautiful. He released Clary, admiring the sequins sparkling in the morning sun that shone through the window. Clary made a face at Simon as she accepted the giant spoon thrust upon her by Raphael, who had been tapping his foot, waiting for his helpers to actually start being helpful. 

Simon, never quite knowing when to stop talking, held a bowl for Raphael and said, “It just seems wasteful to wear something so nice when we’re just beating around the house.”

“Magnus wears nice things every day, and he never goes anywhere,” Clary countered, throwing back her head so her hair fell in a perfect wave down her back. Magnus frowned at the rogue strands that would most likely find their way into his supper and tried not to allow Clary’s unintentionally insensitive comment bother him overly much. “Besides, it’s not like I have anywhere else to wear it.”

Magnus was on the verge of commenting that one never needed more of a reason to wear what one wanted beyond pleasing oneself, but as he sucked in a breath for his speech, the door of the study clicked open and Luke entered the kitchen. He propped his tall frame against the wall and crossed his arms, his eyes soft for his partner and wards. 

Raphael stole Luke a single glance before returning his strength to the mixture he’d been pummeling so intently. “Is Mr. Garroway going to stand there and stare all day, I wonder, or help his family as they slave way in the kitchen at all hours?” he asked in a voice deep and smooth.

Magnus, who had miraculously remained in the kitchen for more than a minute without having a whisk or some such instrument thrust into his hands, watched as Luke crossed the floor to stand beside Raphael, stilling his spoon. Raphael smirked up at him, his head needing to tilt very far back to meet his partner’s eyes, so tall was he. His eyes fluttered shut as Luke’s fingers reached up to touch Raphael’s forehead, wordlessly wiping away the streak of flour. Raphael snorted indignantly and resumed his task, but Magnus detected the hint of a blush high in his cheeks. The sight chewed at him slightly, bothering a specific section of his chest that had been painstakingly tucked aside. It was the piece of him holding the knowledge that, were Magnus to have flour on his forehead, he would have no one to wipe it off. A silly, distant pang of a thought, and one that was luckily shed as Luke began speaking his reasoning for leaving his study in the first place, that alone a spectacular event.

“I hate to interrupt,” Luke began in his important-sounding cadence, “but it just so happens an opportunity may be presenting itself that would allow for sequin wearing with little to no risk of hazardous, flour-related incidents.” He shot Simon with a pointed look and amended, “Probably.”

The effect of his words was instantaneous: Clary dropped her spoon, Simon snorted apprehensively, Raphael stopped beating his egg mixture to death, and Magnus – Magnus dipped his head and settled his disbelieving, nonchalantly arched eyebrows toward Luke and his claim. Luke’s eyes, though they danced briefly over the others, ultimately fell to Magnus, squinting minutely with an affection that Magnus paid back with a crossing of his arms. Sensing Luke wished him to speak, Magnus asked, “And pray, what opportunity might that be?”

“I have received word this very morning pertaining to the occupancy of the Institute down the lane,” answered Luke with a mischievous gleam in his eyes. 

Raphael’s gasp was catching as he and Clary flanked Luke’s sides, looking up with eager eyes. “No one’s lived in the Institute for years and years,” Raphael whispered reverently, eyes widening. “Such a big house, its occupier would have to be well endowed.” Upon Simon’s poorly hidden giggle, Raphael hastily specified, “Financially well endowed, Simon. Please remove your head from the gutter.”

Magnus, who felt a spark of genuine intrigue, asked, “Who is this well endowed occupier that has moved into the Institute? Tell us quickly before Clary hemorrhages.” 

Luke smiled down at Clary, who was bouncing on the balls of her feet, bubbling over with excitement, Magnus’ emerald scarf sparkling as it jostled with every jarred movement. “His name is Mr. Herondale and he is throwing a ball.” Another amused sound escaped Simon’s mouth and Luke spoke past it with a wave of his hand. “Shall I write him back with an answer? Mr. Santiago, are you inclined to attend with our wards, or will you be slaving away in the kitchen all hours Saturday evening?” 

“Mr. Herondale,” Raphael repeated wondrously. “Is our Mr. Herondale a bachelor, Mr. Garroway?”

“Incredibly so, Mr. Santiago,” answered Luke with barely concealed mirth at his partner’s doe-eyed expression. “And rumor has it he has the face of an angel.”

“Such a large estate for one alone,” Raphael mused, mindless of the egginess dripping in fat dollops from the end of his spoon. “He must be eager to fill it with an attachment of some kind, no?”

“Possibly, but rumor also has it that he has brought a friend with him from the city, who will be helping him to settle into his new abode.”

“A friend?” Raphael asked, his interest growing, his grip on his partner’s forearm increasing. “And do your rumors tell anything of said friend’s endowments, either facial or fiscal?”

“My knowledge of the friend is as scarce as this: his name is Mr. Lightwood and he is a bachelor of more wealth and consequence than even dear Mr. Herondale,” said Luke. Magnus wondered how the man did not shriek considering the force of which Raphael’s fingertips were burrowing into his skin.

“Do you mean to say, Mr. Garroway, that not one, but two eligible bachelors have moved in down the lane and we are invited to attend their home this Saturday?” asked Raphael.

Luke placed his hand over Raphael’s, carefully removing the clawed grip from his forearm. “I do mean to say, Mr. Santiago.” When Raphael’s mouth worked open and no intelligible sound came out, Luke peered down with an indulgent smile. “Should I write Mr. Herondale back with our acceptance?”

Brightness flashed behind Raphael’s eyes. He reached up on his tip toes and grasped Luke’s head in his hands. “Yes, Mr. Garroway! Write the gentleman back! Make haste!” He released Luke, who staggered back slightly and made a quick escape from the kitchen, meeting Magnus’ eye with a wink before slipping through his study door.

Raphael turned on his heel to face his wards, holding his spoon aloft like a conductor. “Simon. Magnus.” His voice was almost calm, but the underlying tremor of energy beneath his vowels gave him away to Magnus, who readied himself, knowing what speeches followed such particular moods. “You must present your best selves at this ball. I see no way around this being fated. Two bachelors for two single young men. Fate! Dios!”

“What about me?” Clary piped, her eyes already watering from exclusion. “I’m single,” she pointed out, quite truthfully. “And I’m more desirable than Simon,” she said with a pout, which made Magnus cock his head at her, considering. That, he decided, was a matter of opinion, but Biscuit was not without her charms, and she laid them out full force on her guardian, eyelashes batting and irresistible. 

“You’re too young to be courted, Clary,” Raphael gentled, his spoonless hand reaching out to cup her cheek. “You may still attend the ball, of course, but we’ll leave the marriage proposals to the boys.”

“Clary is welcome to my eligible bachelor,” Magnus announced, taking a cautionary step back from Raphael’s whipping spoon. Clary might have had temporary ownership of his scarf, but his current blouse of silky magenta was just as precious and just as likely to be ruined by errant splatters of his guardian’s cooking. At Raphael’s stormy expression, Magnus lifted his hands and took another step back. How he wished he could slink into Luke’s study and lose himself inside another book. 

“You, Magnus Bane, have turned down every suitor you’ve ever had,” said Raphael, his former good mood evaporated by the audacity of his oldest ward. “It’s past time for you to settle down and marry. If not for love of your spouse, then at least for love of your younger siblings, who cannot respectably think of marriage with an unmarried eldest.”

“Raphael,” Simon attempted kindly, to interject, but Magnus shook his head. 

“I will go to the ball. I will dance. I will undoubtedly look my best,” Magnus promised sternly, “but I will make no promises of a partnership.”

“Magnus,” Raphael scolded. “You can’t avoid a partnership forever. When will you think to your future and show some responsibility?”

Magnus saw through the red blooming at the edges of his vision that Simon was touching a hand to Raphael’s shoulder, and he could detect through the thrumming pulse in his ears that his brother was speaking soothingly to their guardian. But Magnus had no more heart for the scene, and he hurried from the kitchen. Clary tried to catch his arm by the stairs, but after giving her a tired look she let him go and up he went. 

He did not stomp up the steps, nor did he slam his bedroom door, but he did find his expression grim when he positioned himself in front of his mirror. Between the dark liner edged perfect and glittering around his lids, his eyes were dark and reflective. His lips were pursed and he strove to relax them, made himself smile past the knot of frustration in his gut. His fingers flexed into fists at his side, once, twice, before he bid them relax and smoothed them through his hair. Spiked up with sparkling tips, the sight of his expert coif took a considerable edge off Magnus’ burgeoning bad mood. It would be silly, after all, for such a pretty sight to be ruined by an unattractive temper. 

But even as his eyes meditatively drank in the smooth silk of his blouse and the velveteen sheen of his trousers, the set of shining chains around his neck and bejeweled drops of rings slipped over his fingers, Magnus’ ears heard only Raphael’s words. And the truth behind them.

There had been suitors in his past, and Magnus, for one reason or another, had turned every one of them down. Though abhorrent to his guardian Raphael, Magnus maintained he could not, would not marry just anyone. He searched his eyes in the mirror, wondering why he felt so differently from the rest of his family, who strove for happy unions. Did they not yearn for that spark of magic, as Magnus did? Or was Magnus the only one who had yet to feel the spark? Was he so incapable of feeling genuine love that his body could not even rummage the strength to feel attraction? 

Of course, he had tried. When he was nearer Clary’s age, he had not held back in his efforts to be wooed, but whenever the courtship took its turn for the serious and permanent, Magnus would retreat, realizing he felt empty inside in regards to the suitor. And he would not settle for emptiness. He yearned for genuine, overwhelming, inescapable love, like the heroines and heroes of the novels he consumed. Why sentence oneself to a life absent of magic?

But Magnus was learning, after years of lackluster options, that the magic he sought, in his world anyway, was nowhere to be found.

With a steadying breath, he turned from the mirror and perused the articles of clothing Simon and Clary left littered about the floor. He knelt, lifting a finely embroidered purple waistcoat with gold-flake buttons between his fingers. The deep berry of his polished nails would need to be embellished before Saturday, and the shoes he had in mind needed shining, some dirt scraped from their heels. If the only magic in the world to be found was the magic Magnus put into it with the care of his appearance, so be it. He would attend the ball, he would make sure his brother and sister looked fabulous, and he would have all the more fun with the knowledge that he need not impress anyone but himself.

 

\--

 

Magnus grabbed Simon’s arm, tugging him to the side before Raphael could drag them all through the grand front doors of the Institute. Simon looked at him with wide eyes.

“You forgot a button,” Magnus said softly, his fingers already flying over his brother’s waistcoat. Scarlet button secured, he smoothed his hands over Simon’s shoulders and fixed him with a smile. 

“Do I look alright?” 

“Like a lovely, twitchy prince,” Magnus replied kindly. “Now go dazzle yourself a husband so Raphael will get off my back.” He turned Simon about and gave his buttocks a light pat. “Onward, Simon. The ball awaits.” Simon’s chuckle was quickly drowned out when they marched through the front doors and into the foyer of the Institute. 

Magnus didn’t bother containing his reaction. The interior of the estate was grander than anything he’d ever seen, and he squeaked accordingly, the high pitched sound leaving his lips a perfect match to Clary’s squeal ahead of him. Magnus admired his work as he watched Clary’s arm twining with Raphael’s a few steps ahead. The emerald scarf had not quite survived its misuse in the kitchen, as predicted, and Magnus had opted to drape Clary’s delicate form in sugar cube whites that swished around her dainty ankles as she jumped up and down at the sight before her. Magnus felt like jumping up and down too, but he settled for awestruck eyes and a mouth that would not quite close, lifting his head to admire the gilded ceilings, lowering it to peer at his own reflection in the impossibly shiny marble beneath his heeled boots. But as he heard the swells of fiddling erupting in the ballroom just ahead, Magnus began counting the seconds until he could reasonably jump up and down with the rhythm of a dance. Magnus loved to dance! In fact, he enjoyed the frivolity of such gatherings to such an extent that he’d readied himself and his siblings that evening with nary an ill thought toward Raphael’s intentions. Despite any possible matchmaking attempts, Magnus would dance, and he would look beautiful doing it. He’d made sure of it.

Raphael had requested they all look their best for Mr. Herondale’s ball, and Magnus had skimped no extravagances. His eyes were painted with midnight black coal, glitter embedded like cat eyes winging at the edges, tiny diamonds sparkling silver against his golden skin. His lashes were twirled and his lips were sweetly glossed. His hair was as grand as the occasion, tall and spiked, tips dipped in purple paints to match the waistcoat hugging his svelte physique. He looked his best, all sparkles and rich tones.

He smiled at Simon, who fidgeted at his side, tugging at the clothes Magnus had dressed him in. Deep scarlet and black. Respectable but bold, with a flair of interest at the gold handkerchief folded in his breast pocket. Magnus was still grinning with excitable fondness when a hand closed over his own and his fingers were intertwined with a familiar second set. 

“Ragnor!” Magnus exclaimed with another swell of jubilation. He kissed his best friend’s cheek and tightened the hold on his hand. “You look handsome tonight. Plan to snare yourself one of our new bachelors?” It had been a joke, but the twitch in Ragnor’s expressive eyebrows brought a stutter to Magnus’ smile. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” Ragnor scolded haughtily. “It’s not on all of our lists to die bitter and alone.” 

Magnus bent back his head with a laugh. “It’s not on my list to die from the boredom of passionless coupling.”

“Just from the boredom of your own hand for the rest of your days. Bleak, my dear friend. Very bleak.”

“Ah, but look how lovely my hands are,” Magnus reasoned, lifting his jeweled hands and wiggling the fingers enticingly. “I can think of worse fates.”

“Then we must agree to disagree, as is the usual run of things,” Ragnor concluded, taking back Magnus’ hand and leading them through the archway and into the ballroom. Simon squeezed Magnus’ elbow, allotted him a crooked grin, and hurried ahead to link arms with Clary. “The little dears look tempting this evening,” commented Ragnor with eyes fastened leeringly at Simon’s departing backside.

“They ought to,” replied Magnus proudly. “It took me long enough getting them ready. Have you ever wielded a powder puff on the wily and unwilling? I nearly lost an eye.”

The friends eased themselves into the crowded room, and it was, Magnus observed curiously, slam packed with every soul he knew from their village and the neighboring townships. It seemed everyone within shouting distance wished to behold the new inhabitants of the Institute. Magnus could admit to himself that he was not without his own inquisitiveness, what with all the gossip surrounding Mr. Herondale. One way or another, the ball was bound to be an interesting event. From the looks of it, Clary was already having a memorable time. Magnus was pleased with himself that he’d dressed her in white; he could spot her energetic bouncing across the bobbing heads of many, an ethereal bundle of white in a sea of lace and ruffles. He watched her dance round in a circle with Simon until Raphael looked over his shoulder and glared pointedly at Magnus. Magnus gifted his guardian with a cheery smile and turned back to Ragnor. He would not let Raphael’s sourness kill his mood. Tonight would be one of the good ones; of this, Magnus was determined.

He was on the precipice of guiding Ragnor to the center of the room for a dance when the music came to an abrupt halt and the entire crowd seemed to stop all motion on silent agreement. Ragnor suddenly pulled Magnus backward, and he whipped his head around to narrow his eyes at his officious friend. Before he could ask Ragnor what his intentions were, he realized several dance partners had been similarly yanked so that a clear path now snaked down the center of the ballroom. 

It seemed the hosts were finally making their appearance. 

Magnus was tall, so he didn’t need to crane his neck much to catch the first glimpse of the two men shadowing the entryway. And then Magnus pressed a hand to his stomach, because for some reason he couldn’t breathe quite as consistently as was normal. He could feel his pulse pounding unapologetically in his throat, in his fingertips, in his trousers. If not for Ragnor’s grasp on his arm, Magnus feared he might fall to his knees, they buckled so violently. And the source of this absurd reaction was steadily walking nearer, at the side of a blond whose face Magnus could not even begin to examine, because his eyes were glued, his attentions were mystified by the force looming ever closer. 

The man did not walk quickly, but his legs were long and carried him swiftly through the clearing. Golden brown eyes, large with long lashes, were directed straight ahead. A plump, pink mouth was frozen in a determinedly straight line. Thick, dark eyebrows were positioned to just barely save the face from a scowl. His collar was high on the strong column of his neck, though a patch of throat peeked through the lace-ups. When he passed, his eyes darted for an instant toward Magnus. But it was only an instant, and then he was gone again, leaving behind a mere echo of his clean scent. Magnus examined the man’s back as he walked away. His shoulders were defined beneath his black coat, and his waist was trim. His gait was a hybrid of grace and unease. He was the grumpiest, most beautiful man Magnus had ever seen, in a ballroom or anywhere.

At last, the two men reached the head of the room, standing atop a dais of sorts, which Magnus found both preposterous and oddly appropriate. Then they turned to face the crowd, and those brilliant eyes enraptured Magnus anew. He wiped at the hint of sweat on his brow and stared. 

“Mr. Herondale is quite handsome,” Ragnor whispered in his ear. 

“Yes,” breathed Magnus. 

“I’ve always loved blonds.”

Blonds? Magnus’ eyes finally traveled reluctantly from his fixation, whom was definitely not blond, thus definitely not Mr. Herondale. Mr. Herondale himself was much slighter, short even, comparatively, and his hair, though a pleasant shade of cool yellow, was nowhere near as breathtaking as the raven head beside him which could belong to none other than Mr. Lightwood. 

Mr. Herondale, his smiling, golden face a stark contrast to the stern, obscenely beautiful Mr. Lightwood, struck his hands together in greeting, announced something Magnus could not hear from his distance, and then, as quickly as it appeared, the empty path evaporated, the musicians struck up a tune, and the ball’s atmosphere shifted back from stunned silence to rollicking splendor. 

Only a jerking of his shoulder had Magnus’ attention wrenched from Mr. Lightwood’s face, and he spun to reprimand Ragnor’s rudeness. But Ragnor was not the one with an iron fist entrapping Magnus’ shoulder and pinching the shimmering purple of his coat; it was Raphael, and behind him stood Simon with an apologetic shrug, and Clary, whose cheeks were pink with pleasure. 

“Are you unwell?” Raphael asked as soon as Magnus had turned to face him.

Magnus pressed his fingers to his cheek, feeling hotter than the temperature of the ballroom made feasible. Was he unwell? His insides felt fluttery and strange and his heartbeat still raged in his chest. Still, he swatted away Raphael’s encroaching hand with a scoff and made his answer, “Of course I’m well. Don’t I look it?” When Raphael opened his mouth to tell him exactly how he looked, Magnus interjected. “On second thought, let’s not go there.”

“At the moment, there is only one place I wish to go with you, Magnus,” Raphael chided, beginning to lead him with an assertive hand. “We must introduce ourselves to Mr. Herondale and his friend.”

Magnus looked helplessly over his shoulder at Ragnor, who remained behind with a wicked smile on his face, but he allowed Raphael to guide him through the bustle of ruffled attendees. Oddly, Magnus felt no desire to avoid the inevitable meeting. Contrarily, he wanted, needed to see Mr. Lightwood’s inexplicable compilation of features up close, so he could disprove their effects on him. The light must have caught him at an absurdly favorable angle before, and that was why Magnus’ heart was a wild thing in his chest. But when he faced Mr. Lightwood again, beneath a more mundane light, Magnus’ stomach would surely stop flipping manically, and his palms would stop sweating. Just one more look at the man from a sensible angle and – 

Raphael pushed him into the cleared space before the dais, right as a tall, lean body was stepping down from atop it, and Magnus collided with a solid mass of black coat and muscles. Large hands braced his shoulders for the briefest of moments, steadying Magnus and settling him back into his own space, and Magnus glanced upward, his eyes locking instantly on surprised, golden irises.  
“Oh!” Raphael gasped, appearing at Magnus’ side. “Magnus is so clumsy, I’m afraid, but what a happy accident, as we were on our way to introduce ourselves.”

Magnus threw his guardian an unconvinced glower, and then looked back at Mr. Lightwood, who was straightening his coat where Magnus’ head had collided with his lapels. The man’s expression was dark, unreadable, and he tugged at his high collar uncomfortably while looking as breathtaking as Magnus had initially distinguished, damn him. 

“Sorry,” Magnus said softly. He reached out his hand without thinking and brushed an errant dusting of glitter off Mr. Lightwood’s coat. Mr. Lightwood met his eyes then, the surprised look back on his face, and his lips were parted, about to speak.

“Hello,” said the blond Mr. Herondale, sweeping between Mr. Lightwood and Magnus and stopping directly in front of Simon, who had been awkwardly lingering and possibly hiding behind Raphael. 

Simon looked panicked, his eyes darting between Magnus, Raphael, and the man gazing at him intensely. Luckily for Simon, he need not summon any clever words; Raphael piped up immediately, eager to enact the plan he’d been maniacally rubbing his hands together over since news of the ball.

“Mr. Herondale, allow me to introduce my lovely wards. Simon Lewis. Isn’t he beguiling? And my youngest, Clary Morgenstern, and my eldest, Magnus Bane.” 

Mr. Herondale gave each a polite bow of his head, but his eyes never strayed from Simon, and when his greetings were completed, he took Simon’s hand in his, making Magnus’ brother start as though he’d just received a shock. “Mr. Lewis,” he said with a smirk.

“Simon’s fine,” came the faint reply.

“Simon,” Mr. Herondale repeated upon a sigh. Magnus would have sworn his eyes twinkled. “Would you dance with me?”

Magnus was proud of Simon when he did not collapse on the spot at such a request but nodded with confidence and a lopsided, charming smile. Then the pair was off to join the other couples in a dance and Magnus was left between Clary and Raphael. Mr. Lightwood remained in front of him, looking abandoned and more than a little put out. He still had a sprinkling of Magnus’ eye glitter on his coat, but Magnus dared not assist him again; something about the man’s body language screamed that such touches would be unappreciated and unwelcome.

“My youngest, Mr. Lightwood, is too young to be courted properly, but Magnus is quite agreeable, is he not? And quite light on his feet.” 

Usually, Magnus’ confidence would lend him assistance in an embarrassing moment like this one, but for one reason or another all the steam left Magnus’ body when his eyes met Mr. Lightwood’s once more. Magnus tried to laugh coyly, as if to communicate that he thought Raphael’s shameless hinting was ridiculous and he didn’t’ care in the least whether or not Mr. Lightwood thought him agreeable, but the laugh came out sounding like more of a choke. The opportunity for Mr. Lightwood to ask Magnus to dance was dwindling quickly, the silence between them growing longer and more tortuous than any stretch of moments Magnus could recall in recent memory.

It took all of Magnus’ strength not to fidget beneath that stony stare, for Mr. Lightwood was staring at him, his eyes blazing golden and his mouth slightly open as if to invite words he wished not say. And for all of Magnus’ forced composure, Mr. Lightwood was in constant motion, from his hands smoothing compulsively over his jacket to his eyebrows, which couldn’t seem to figure out whether they wanted to be furrowed or arched. 

Finally, when Magnus could stand no more, he broke eye contact with the mute man and dipped his head in a comely bow. “A pleasure getting to know you, Mr. Lightwood,” he said with the barest hint of detectable sarcasm. 

Mr. Lightwood, as if finally confronted with something familiar, bowed his head in return, and grumbled, “Mr. Bane.”

Magnus thought he recovered from the shock of hearing his name from those lips quite nicely, turning elegantly and waltzing past Clary and Raphael until he successfully lost himself in the crowd, but his chance for reflection was stolen from him when Ragnor took his hand and led him, blessedly, towards the drinks. 

“What did you say to Mr. Lightwood to make him look at you that way?” he asked as he placed a much needed alcoholic drink into Magnus' hand. “From a distance he looked as if he’d been struck.”

“I said nothing outrageous, I can assure you,” Magnus said, wasting no time in finding the bottom of his glass. “Some people are just unpleasant, Ragnor, if you can imagine.”

“I can imagine a multitude of things you’re capable of saying that would make someone’s face look like Mr. Lightwood’s just did.” 

Magnus rolled his eyes and waved a dismissive hand in front of his face. His pulse was still too fast, but he ignored the implications, opting instead for a second glass of punch. 

“Simon was swept off quickly,” Ragnor commented idly.

“Yes, he was,” Magnus agreed. He looked toward the dancers in the center of the room and spotted Simon easily, his scarlet and black colors a perfect complement to Mr. Herondale’s sunny hair. Magnus watched as the song changed and Mr. Herondale held tight to Simon and led him into the next dance without question. “Mr. Lightwood did not even ask me to dance,” he said, almost to himself.

Ragnor cast him a skeptical look. “I assumed you’d turned him down, as you turn them all down.”

“I might have if he’d asked, but he clearly wasn’t interested, in dancing or otherwise,” said Magnus, surprising himself with the bitterness dripping from his voice.

“Perhaps you were giving off similar signals, dear,” Ragnor suggested. “Perhaps in the city they’ve differing customs and he was merely awaiting your approval before he swept you off your feet. Or, maybe,” he continued with an excited little gasp, “Mr. Lightwood is the type of man whose own feet need to be swept up and he was waiting for you to ask him for a dance.”

Magnus hadn’t considered that, hadn’t considered much of anything during the handful of minutes since he’d stared speechless into those eyes. Had not Mr. Lightwood appeared perplexed? Might he have been expecting Magnus to make the first inquiries toward a dance? Not that Magnus wanted to dance with him. He was far too stiff, surely, to encompass any commendable skill. Even though his legs were long and lean and his back was clearly strong beneath his clothes, and his walk was graceful enough, and there had been a charm about the manner in which he tilted his head. 

“Stop being a bore and go ask him to dance before someone else does,” Ragnor sassed. “Like me.” 

“Why should I bother?” Magnus asked with a flippancy he did not feel.

Ragnor leaned close to whisper in his ear. “Because that man is gorgeous and your pupils dilate every time I say his name."

Magnus held a hand to his chest, gaping at his friend, trying to think of a rebuttal. No words came to him, only an increase of fluttering in his stomach. “Fine,” he said, running his fingers through his tall spikes, checking their form. “I love a challenge.” He winked at Ragnor and set his drink down. “How do I look?”

“Sparkly,” Ragnor offered after a sip of his punch.

“Perfect.” Magnus spun on his heeled boots and began his most confident, alluring strut back from whence he came. The current dance came to an end and Magnus wondered what the next one might be, the one he would share with Mr. Lightwood. Would their palms touch? Would he hear his name uttered from that pretty mouth once more? 

Magnus sifted through the other attendees, his eyes zeroed in on Mr. Lightwood’s back as he leaned down slightly to speak with his friend, Mr. Herondale, who had recently returned to his side with a cheery smile. The smaller blond kept glancing over his shoulder toward Simon, who had already been commandeered by Clary for the next dance. Magnus’ curiosity piqued, as it was obvious the two hosts were discussing his brother. He moved toward them slowly, so as not to be detected right away. If there was gossip to be heard about Simon’s future with Mr. Herondale, Magnus thought it a familial responsibility that he hear it straight from the source. When their voices reached his ears at a suitable volume, Magnus stopped, casually twisting his body away as if he wasn’t a horrible eavesdropper. 

“Simon is attractive, don’t you think?” asked Mr. Herondale to his friend. 

“Yes, Jace,” replied Mr. Lightwood. 

“Not the best dancer, but I didn’t even care. He was funny, Alec. I think I spent the last two dances laughing; my stomach actually hurts,” Mr. Herondale continued, stealing another doting look toward Simon, whose face was a similar shade of happy pink. He nudged Mr. Lightwood in the arm. “But his brother was attractive too, didn’t you think?”

Magnus’ heart might have stopped.

“He was a bit…much,” was Mr. Lightwood’s answer after a long pause. 

“You’re a bit much,” countered Mr. Herondale with a bark of laughter. “Is that glitter on your collar?”

“Cut it out, Jace.”

“Come now, I’m sure Mr. Bane would have been pleased to have you as a dance partner.”

“There is no one here I wish to converse with, let alone dance.”

Mr. Lightwood turned his head to look behind him and Magnus caught a flash of gold before he was able to turn completely around. Fearing he’d been spotted, Magnus made quick work of the ballroom, passing through its archway and not stopping until he found solace in a dark corner of the foyer. He leaned his back against the wall and breathed deep, trying to calm his nerves and soothe the burn to his pride. 

He rubbed his damp palms over his pants, looking down at his polished fingernails and the glinting purple of his waistcoat. Mr. Lightwood had thought him a bit much. Mr. Lightwood hadn’t wished to dance or speak with him, because he was…a bit much. 

For about a minute, Magnus stood in the Institute foyer and felt extremely miserable. He cursed himself for overdressing, for painting his eyes, for the purple in his hair and the glitter and the colors and the everything that made Magnus Bane Magnus Bane. But then, when the minute had passed, Magnus remembered himself, remembered that he loved his glitter and colors, remembered that he strove to be a bit much, and then he felt better. The real fool of the night’s story was not Magnus, but Mr. Lightwood, who was rude and awful, and no level of otherworldly attractiveness would ever make up for such abysmal behavior. 

Magnus straightened himself up, bidding the butterflies from his stomach. Mr. Lightwood would not ruin his evening. He was at a ball and he looked fabulous and he was going to dance and he was not going to think about Mr. Lightwood’s face when he’d turned his head and seen Magnus standing behind him. 

The evening was still salvageable. Magnus was determined.


	2. Chapter 2

The evening had, in fact, been salvageable, if only outwardly. Magnus had danced with Ragnor, Simon, Clary, and even Raphael after they’d both had enough glasses of strong punch to make the idea seem inescapable. He had laughed heartily and kept his eyes fixedly away from the dais the rest of the night, and when the ball was finished, he’d kept his attentions too busy to look at the hosts as they bid their guests farewell.

Perhaps Ragnor had known, or speculated, that something was off with Magnus for the remainder of the ball, but he made no mention of it. And Simon had been understandably too preoccupied with talk of Mr. Herondale and what a lovely dancer he’d been and how enjoyable his laugh was to notice if the shine in Magnus’ eyes was a little less than sparkling. 

While Clary had cozied exhaustedly beside Raphael for the carriage ride home, Simon had leaned in close to Magnus and proceeded to describe, in meticulous detail, the curious shades of Mr. Herondale’s eyes. Magnus listened dutifully, feeling genuine pleasure at Simon’s enthusiasm, but inwardly, buried deep, was an unshakable sensation that the ground had irrevocably shifted beneath his feet. 

“I take it you liked Mr. Herondale?” Magnus teased, unable to avoid stealing a final glance at the Institute as the carriage rolled away. The estate loomed formidably grey in the early dawn light. He turned back to Simon just in time to catch his casual shoulder shrug. 

“He was okay.” Simon’s fingers were tapping nervously against his knees. “He probably wasn’t interested.”

But interested Mr. Herondale most certainly proved to be, for it was only a matter of hours, as Magnus and his family were sitting around the table for a late breakfast, when a letter arrived for Simon. With half a roll shoved in his mouth, Simon read the scrawled script with a steady deepening of his cheek color. Crumbs flew unceremoniously when he’d finished and gasped, “Mr. Herondale wishes me to join them for tea at the Institute this afternoon!”

Amidst the resulting hubbub that mostly featured Raphael cooing over his future son-in-law, Magnus heard a faint rumbling from outside. A quick check of the window hinted to a coming storm, and he interjected swiftly into the conversation. 

“Raphael, we should have the carriage prepared for Simon straight away. It looks like rain.”

At Magnus’ delivery of said precipitationary information, Raphael cocked his head at the fat thunderclouds and scoffed. “Nonsense. I need the carriage today for some errands. Simon can take the horse.”

Another mild rumble shook the window panes and Simon’s eyes widened, but Raphael took an innocent sip of his juice.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Magnus argued. He looked to Luke for his reaction, only to find him extremely interested in his eggs. “Simon has to take the carriage. It’s going to storm.”

“It's only a little rain, Magnus,” was Raphael’s short reply. "Simon, you will take the horse.”

Magnus set down his fork with a hard clatter on his plate and fixed his guardian with a grueling stare. “You can’t be serious.”

But Raphael was serious indeed, even a half hour later when Magnus saw Simon into the saddle of the horse and the first few sprinkles of rain began to fall. Magnus frowned at Simon’s hair, which he’d just spent twenty minutes coaxing into perfect form and which would only take a horse ride through a storm to destroy. 

“I’ll be fine,” Simon said, and Magnus realized he’d been gripping the reins and preventing his brother’s departure. There was another crackle of thunder, louder this time, and Magnus sighed, shaking his head disapprovingly.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Magnus said as he finally backed away from the horse.

“I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t accept tea at a rich bachelor’s estate, so…there’s that,” Simon quipped with a grin, and then he was off, the roan horse trotting off as heavier raindrops began to splatter the ground. Magnus let his face feel the rain for a few moments, watching until Simon had ridden out of sight. Only then did he turn back to the house, march into the kitchen, and throw a yeast roll at Raphael.

“I cannot believe you just sent him out into a thunderstorm for the sole purpose of courtship,” he fumed. “He’ll be soaked to the bone by the time he arrives.” Magnus’ heart went out to his poor striped waistcoat he’d dressed Simon in, which would be ruined when splashed with the mud splatters of its foreseeable future.

“You heard of the way Simon was speaking about dear Mr. Herondale,” Raphael said, his voice calm and cool as he picked up the roll Magnus had pelted at him and took a prim nibble. “Do you really think a spot of rain could keep him away?” At Magnus’ speechless huff, Raphael continued. “Really, Magnus, where is your sense of romance?”

Magnus felt his face growing hot and looked askance at Luke once more, who was pointedly looking anywhere but at his eldest ward. Even Clary, who had been rapt with attention since Simon’s letter arrived, was dutifully avoiding Magnus’ eye. Only Raphael held his gaze, his dark eyes staring unapologetically back as he chewed his food. 

A sudden clack of deafening thunder sounded in the kitchen, followed by the roar of an unforgiving rain. Magnus threw up his hands and headed for the stairs.

Raphael smirked.

 

\--

 

Outside, the storm was raging. Inside, Magnus raged. 

He watched the storm from his bedroom window, mindlessly flipping through the pages of a book he couldn’t be bothered to read. He sat cross-legged on his bed, and the sky was so dark he could see his figure reflected back in the window. His eyes still wore a faded trace of yesterday’s makeup and his hair’s purple tips were wilted from the rain. When he gave it thought, Magnus decided his entire body felt wilted and worn and that just wouldn’t do.

With great effort, Magnus set his book aside and plied himself from his bed, crossing to the mirror. He examined his face, disliking how tired he looked. Though it was the usual thing to stay up all night at a dance, it was unusual for Magnus to show the signs of his deprivation the next day. A tiny voice in his mind whispered that last night’s expenditures had been different. Last night, he had exhausted more than his feet. 

A silly thought. Fleeting. Magnus ignored it and reached for his charcoal, liberally smudging it along the lines of his eyes. A smear of gloss on his lips and fresh wax in his hair and Magnus was already on the path to revival. Once he was satisfied with his face, he shrugged out of his loose-fitting, silky pajamas and slid into something prettier: a formfitting waistcoat, ivory with large floral prints in carmine and clementine, and his sleekest trousers of soft, ivory leather. The light, bright colors made his brown skin pop, and Magnus twisted before the mirror, smiling at his buxom backside. He moved to his bedside table, sweeping up the gaudy flask Clary had gifted him with last Christmas, and he took a healthsome sip. Amazing what a shot of whiskey and some leather pants could accomplish for Magnus’ mood. He went back to the window to watch the remainder of the storm, and hoped Simon was having a pleasant enough time with Mr. Herondale.

In no more than an hour’s time, the rain had dissipated and Magnus had joined Clary downstairs to try and work the flour marks out of his sequin scarf while she studied her piano forte. While Magnus enjoyed Biscuit’s talented fingers, he had never possessed much skill for the instrument himself besides the most rudimentary array of songs. Maybe if Magnus had possessed the passion to learn, he would have been masterful, but his passion was less for piano keys and more for books and makeup. So it was Clary played a masterpiece to the ears and Magnus made sure he remained a masterpiece to the eyes. 

He had managed to make positive headway on the most tragic segment of cloth when Raphael arrived, walking into the humble parlor with a damp fold of paper in his hand. 

“I’ve just received word from the Institute,” Raphael announced. 

Magnus and Clary raised their heads. Before Raphael continued, Magnus felt a sinking feeling in his gut.

“Simon has taken ill, bless his heart, and Mr. Herondale insists on his remaining until he is well enough to travel. Isn’t that thoughtful of him? What a wonderful man.”

With a surge of outrage, Magnus threw down his scarf and crossed to Raphael, snatching the letter from his hands. “This says he has a terrible fever!” He glared at his guardian, who was looking far too pleased for Magnus’ liking. “You hoped this would happen.”

“Dios, ‘tis only a little cold. Simon will be fine, and think of the bonding experience with Mr. Herondale!”

Not for the first time, Magnus wondered over the sanity of his guardian, but more important than whether or not Raphael had lost his mind was poor Simon’s health. The sinking feeling in his stomach sank impossibly lower as he realized exactly what he would have to do to ensure his sibling’s wellbeing. He brushed past Raphael without a word, grabbing his long, sable overcoat from the brass hanger. 

“Where are you off to?” asked Raphael. “It’s all mud and puddles outside.”

Magnus wrestled his arms into the coat and pulled the collar high around his neck, then turned with a melodramatic flourish. “Simon is sick. I must go to him!” He did not wait to hear Raphael’s protestations, sweeping from the room and heading straight for the front door, which he let slam shut in his wake. 

His boots seemed to instantly sink into the ground, and Magnus felt a twinge of regret for wearing all white. But he could no more go back and change his clothes than he could go another second without tending to his brother, so he trudged forward, his feet suctioning to the muddy earth one squishy step at a time. 

The journey to the Institute was not unwalkably far, but it did take a toll on Magnus’ legs, already overworked from all the dancing the night before, and by the time he reached the steps to Mr. Herondale’s estate, not only was he loose limbed and weary, but a full quarter length of his coat and trousers were covered with mud. He thought he might have even succumbed to a few specks of mud on his face, remembering an exceptionally deep, unexpected puddle about a mile back, but he was too worried and too tired to care. He knocked loudly on the ornate front door, struggling to keep his headspace singularly focused on Simon and no one else that may be lurking someplace within the ivy-crawling stone walls.

When the doorman answered, he gave Magnus a blank-faced onceover before leading him inside with an audible sigh of vexation. Magnus tried his best to kick the majority of mud from his boots before following the stodgy butler inside the familiar foyer, though he found everything looked different in the daylight; the floor was not quite as shiny, the ceilings were not quite as lofty. Magnus certainly hoped a few other features of note had likewise been exaggerated beneath the forgiving cloak of candlelight, but his hopes were ruthlessly dashed in the next moments.

The butler stilled him outside a parlor room door, and Magnus listened as his name was announced in the space large enough to create a minor echo. After the simply stated “Mr. Magnus Bane” was released into the atmosphere, the butler crooked his finger and Magnus entered.

The first thing he saw, because his luck seemed to have evaporated utterly within the past twelve hours, was a burst of gold in a startled face as Mr. Lightwood clamored to his feet. Daylight flooded the room through floor to ceiling windows, illuminating the man’s every feature with perfect clarity, and Magnus prayed his displeasure was none too obvious, since the man was even more frustratingly beautiful than he had been the night before. 

“Mr. Bane,” said Mr. Herondale, who seemed surprised, but happy to see him. He had also risen upon Magnus’ arrival, but somehow his image was lesser, less demanding, and Magnus’ eyes had fallen magnetically to the taller man at his side, where they still tried to linger, despite Magnus’ wholehearted dismay. Mr. Lightwood had that expression about his face again: gloomy, bothered, and slightly pained. 

All of a sudden, Magnus was uncomfortably aware that he was irrefutably filthy, but he would not look down on himself, not in front of Mr. Lightwood, who already looked down enough for the both of them. Instead, Magnus kept his chin lifted and, tearing his eyes away from Mr. Lightwood’s sun-drenched face, forced his focus to his companion instead, a handsome, yet considerably less jarring person to ponder. 

“Mr. Herondale,” Magnus said with a tiny bow of his head, “I’ve come to see about my brother.”

“Of course,” Mr. Herondale replied. His eyes were kind and, Magnus noted with amusement, shaded as beautifully as Simon had told, in robin’s egg blue and an endearing mar of chestnut. “I am sorry he is ill. But I am not sorry he is here.”

“I have a feeling, Mr. Herondale, that Simon feels similarly. I’d like to see him,” Magnus said, trying very hard not to notice the fidgeting taking place beside the blond as large hands wrung anxiously together. No doubt Magnus’ appearance was causing Mr. Lightwood anxiety over the state of the rugs. 

“He is resting upstairs. Please, go see to him. Stay as long as you like,” Mr. Herondale said with a broad, disarming grin. “Any friend of Simon’s has a special place in my heart, and Mr. Lightwood shares my sentiments.” 

Magnus finally allowed his eyes freedom to roam from Mr. Herondale’s open face to Mr. Lightwood’s mockingly closed one. If he had any room for a heart in that stiff, put upon body, Magnus doubted it held any sentiment for him. But Magnus, striving for aloof politeness, gave each man a small bow in thanks and turned to leave. Out of the corner of his eye, as he strode to the door, he saw Mr. Lightwood’s bow in return, a jerking, awkward motion. Magnus rolled his eyes when he had reached the hall, for the miserable Mr. Lightwood was evidently so unused to showing even the slightest levels of hospitality even his bow was unpracticed. 

The butler tutted ceaselessly the entire walk to the room upstairs in which Simon had been sequestered. Magnus may or may not have been digging his muddy heels into the carpet as he was led up the staircase and down the long hallway. When they reached the room, the butler was clearly relieved to be relieved as Magnus’ escort, and he continued to tut unhappily as he left Magnus alone before the door. 

After the muffled sound of a titanic sneeze, Magnus set his hand to the crystal doorknob and turned it sharply, opening the door and stepping through swiftly. There Simon lay, sprawled miserably upon a richly dressed bed. His face was pale, save for the redness of his nose, and a fretful mountain of tissues was nestled at his hip. With glassy eyes, he looked at Magnus, and to Magnus’ great surprise, Simon greeted him with a wide, lopsided smile, as if he’d just been discovered having the time of his life instead of lying in a sickbed. Slyly, Magnus wondered to what extent, exactly, Mr. Herondale had been taking care of his sibling. 

Magnus sidled up to the bed, nudging a crumpled tissue out of the way, and eased himself onto the impossibly lush mattress. Perhaps Raphael had been wiser in his deviousness than Magnus had initially thought, as it seemed the Institute was a much better place to be sick than their simple little house. 

Simon’s whole body tensed up and a gargantuan sneeze wracked his whole body, but when he collapsed back onto his pillows, his smile returned. Magnus pressed a worried palm to Simon’s forehead, which was clammy and too warm.

“How are you feeling?” Magnus asked. “Still feverish, I see.”

“It’s already gone down though, Mags,” Simon insisted, dabbing at his nose with his tissue. His voice was thick and his syllables dulled by his malady. “Jace is taking really good care of me.”

“Jace?” asked Magnus. 

“Erm – Mr. Herondale, I mean,” Simon remedied hastily, his cheeks flushing red as his nose. “He asked me to…call him Jace…if I didn’t mind it. Don’t you think it suits him?”

Magnus indulged his brother and took a moment to truly consider whether the name matched the man. His fingers scratched at the light scruff of hair at his chin as he hummed thoughtfully. “Jace is an unusual name, but I doubt something common like ‘Jonathon’ or ‘Christopher’ would do Mr. Herondale justice.” Magnus ruffled his hand through Simon’s mussed hair. “I think Jace suits him wonderfully.”

“It’s the perfect name,” Simon said with a little sigh. “Oh, Magnus, I feel like such an inconvenience, but he’s been so kind to me. I believe I’ll be better in no time.” 

Magnus observed Simon, noting the dark circles under his eyes. “A good night’s rest should do it, I think,” he said. “You should try and rest now.” He sat with his brother, stroking his hair soothingly until Simon was asleep, and then he slipped silently from the room. 

When he returned to the parlor, it was empty, and a short response from the butler informed him that the gentlemen of the house had moved to the drawing room and Magnus was to join them there, if he pleased. Magnus felt his eyebrows pinch together in consternation. He had no real choice in the matter. He couldn’t very well choose to ignore the invitation to the drawing room. Was he to remain holed up in Simon’s room? Or slink in the dark shadows of the estate, hoping to never run into Mr. Herondale or his cantankerous companion? No options before him, Magnus allowed the butler to lead him to the drawing room, where he was, once again, announced.

“Mr. Magnus Bane,” the butler said, crooking his finger.

Magnus held his head high as he waltzed into the room, this one even finer than the last. Upon his entrance, Mr. Lightwood, who was seated at a writing desk beside the picture windows, jumped to his feet with such speed, he nearly knocked over his inkwell. Nearby, on a pink sofa, Mr. Herondale stood smoothly, a glint of amusement in his eyes. 

“Mr. Bane, won’t you join us?” Mr. Herondale asked, waving a hand to the sofa opposite his own. 

Magnus smiled and took a seat, cutting his eyes at the man in his peripheral, who was reassuming his position at the desk. 

“How did you find your brother?” asked Mr. Herondale, surprising Magnus when he abandoned his previous sofa for the one which Magnus presently occupied. He plopped down beside him, and Magnus bounced slightly as the cushions took on the additional weight.

“I found him well for someone unwell,” Magnus provided. Mr. Herondale had sat down on his left side, which meant that every time Magnus looked at him, he could perfectly see Mr. Lightwood at the writing desk behind him. Golden brown eyes flashed upward beneath a fallen strand of soft black hair and Magnus forced his focus back to Mr. Herondale’s face, which was, after all, much closer and much less stressful to look at. “Thank you for taking such good care of him.”

“It’s been my keenest pleasure,” replied Mr. Herondale, looking a touch bashful for once as he ran a hand through his sweep of silky blond hair. “Though I’m overjoyed you’ve come to see us. For all the care I’ve tried to provide for Simon, I know seeing you shall help the most.” As if noticing for the first time that a good portion of Magnus’ person was indeed covered in mud, Mr. Herondale asked, “Did you walk here, Mr. Bane?”

“I like walking,” Magnus lied with an easy grin. 

To that, Mr. Herondale laughed; it was a loud, joyous, chiming sound. “Did you hear that, Alec?” he asked, twisting around on the sofa to peer at his friend. “Mr. Bane enjoys long walks.”

Mr. Lightwood – Alec, Magnus took note with an annoying twinge in his chest - looked up from a sheet of paper, his pen pausing in its scroll, and his eyes moved slowly over Magnus, from his face to his mud-ruined clothes. “Evidently,” he said.

Mr. Herondale laughed again and settled back against the cushions to face Magnus. “You’ll have to forgive Mr. Lightwood, I’m afraid. He becomes irksomely involved in his correspondences. Who are you writing now?” he called over his shoulder, smiling at Magnus as if they shared some secret between them. 

“Not that it’s any of your business,” answered Mr. Lightwood, his pen moving over the paper in careful strokes. Then, after a pause, he said, “Isabelle.”

“Beautiful Isabelle,” sighed Mr. Herondale. “Naturally.”

Magnus watched Mr. Lightwood shift his full attention back to his letter writing. A love letter, it seemed, now quite obviously. His cheeks were slightly flushed as Magnus observed him. He wrote slowly, carefully, often stilling his pen completely, as though every word deserved pristine consideration before being committed to paper. Magnus could not help but wonder what admirations Mr. Lightwood might configure, what sweet words he might send to a lover. Surely, his doting confessions would be passionless and stiff, like the man. He felt a bit sorry for the faceless but beautiful Isabelle, who must bear the brunt of Mr. Lightwood’s uppity attentions. 

“Mr. Bane?” 

Magnus started, realizing sickly that he’d been staring at Mr. Lightwood and rudely ignoring Mr. Herondale. “Pardon?” he asked, hoping his face was not red, though it felt spectacularly hot. 

“I asked of your other accomplishments, besides walking great distances,” Mr. Herondale said with a laugh.

“Accomplishments?” Magnus repeated stupidly, wondering if not throwing a pillow at Mr. Lightwood’s face could be considered worthy of such a title. 

“Mr. Lightwood says that a man is measured by his accomplishments,” Mr. Herondale expanded, to which Mr. Lightwood responded with a harrumph. “Do you play the piano forte, Mr. Bane?”

“Only when my aim is to torture everyone within hearing distance, Mr. Herondale,” answered Magnus. His hands were clasped together in his lap. He did not like the route of such questions, but Mr. Herondale was clearly amused by his answer. He clapped his hands and looked around at Mr. Lightwood, to gauge his reaction, Magnus supposed. He wondered if Mr. Herondale was able to decipher a response from the stony faced man, because all Magnus could perceive was a straight mouth and wide, blinking eyes. It was a shock when, a moment later, those eyes were affixed to his own, and Mr. Lightwood spoke directly to Magnus in a straightforward, gruff tone.

“Do you enjoy archery, Mr. Bane?”

So surprised was Magnus that he had been asked a direct question by Mr. Lightwood, he could not reform his answer to reflect more positively upon himself. “No, I do not,” he said. Mr. Lightwood blinked at him once and then tilted his head back down to his letter. Magnus felt a swell of resentment, for Mr. Lightwood had most assuredly asked him a question he already knew the answer to. Did Magnus look as though he was knowledgeable of archery? Did he present himself as someone skilled with a bow and arrow, a sport of lord and lady, neither of which category could be filled by Magnus? How rude of Mr. Lightwood to focus the conversation on the humbleness of Magnus’ birth. Though he supposed he should not be so shocked, as his behavior at the ball the night previous had been equally foul. 

“Tell us what you do enjoy, Mr. Bane,” Mr. Herondale implored kindly. “We have been so curious, haven’t we, Mr. Lightwood?”

“Accomplishments are not exclusively enjoyable,” said Mr. Lightwood, “when often one must do what must be done in order to accomplish the necessary.”

His patience frayed and dwindled, Magnus decided it was time to let Mr. Herondale and Mr. Lightwood know precisely what his accomplishments included. “I enjoy sewing, and as you can see, I am quite accomplished in that respect. I take something ugly and plain and make it beautiful. I read, when I’m not helping to take care of my siblings or sewing them new clothes, and when I have a night off, as I am unhindered by an obligation to pound at an instrument or shoot arrows at targets, I dearly love to dance.” He met Mr. Lightwood’s eye. “Whether or not I have an agreeable partner.”

Mr. Lightwood set down his pen and pushed away from the desk, and Magnus was struck with the absurd thought that Mr. Lightwood intended to ask him for a dance that very moment. But the man merely stood from his chair and walked to the window, turning his back to the room, opting to gaze at the manicured grounds instead. 

Mr. Herondale, for his part, was smiling smugly. He leaned toward Magnus, ever so slightly, and stage whispered, “You should lend your accomplishments to Mr. Lightwood. He could do with a touch of sparkle to his clothes, don’t you think?”

Grateful for the invitation back into levity, Magnus returned Mr. Herondale’s conspiratorial smirk. “A touch of glitter never hurt anyone.”

“Ha! Did you hear that, Alec?” Mr. Herondale asked.

“I don’t know why you’re under the impression today that I am hearing impaired,” was Mr. Lightwood’s grumbled reply. Magnus could see his reflection in the window pane, and his expression was dour, tired. In truth, he looked exactly how Magnus felt. But past the admittedly handsome reflection of Mr. Lightwood’s face in the window was the outside world, where the sun was beginning to sink low in the sky. Sunset was upon the Institute, and if Magnus didn’t make haste, he would find himself walking home in darkness.

Magnus stood abruptly from the sofa. “Oh my, look at the time,” he breezed. “Mr. Herondale, thank you for your hospitality, for myself and my brother, but I’m afraid I must be going.”

Mr. Herondale remained casually seated on the sofa and it was, outrageously, Mr. Lightwood who turned from the window and immediately said, “Absolutely not, Mr. Bane.”

Magnus squinted confusedly at Mr. Lightwood, who was shaking his head with a bamboozling vehemence. “Excuse me?”

“You can’t walk home in the dark. I don’t care how much you enjoy the act,” replied Mr. Lightwood. “Mr. Herondale insists you remain the night.”

“Do I?” asked Mr. Herondale with thinly concealed mirth. 

Mr. Lightwood ignored his friend and took a step forward, toward Magnus. “I insist you stay the night, Mr. Bane.” 

The man was adamant, and he wasn’t breaking eye contact with Magnus, so what was he to do? How could he have answered any differently than “Alright”?

Looking uncharacteristically pleased, Mr. Lightwood’s lips quirked at the edges, in semblance of a smile. Magnus’ breath disappeared from his lungs, and he had to cough into his handkerchief to hide his fluster. When he had composed himself, he looked back up at Mr. Lightwood, whose eyes were bright, his golden irises competing for grandeur with the setting sun. 

“Don’t look so worried,” said Mr. Lightwood. “The mud puddles you clearly love to splash in will still be there in the morning.”

 

\--

 

Magnus was lying on his back, stripped to his breeches, thinking over the last several hours of his progressively absurd life. Dinner at the Institute had been an odd affair, mainly consisting of curiously teasing remarks from Mr. Herondale and the occasional sharp glance from Mr. Lightwood, all of which occurred whilst Magnus tried to bury himself beneath his bread pudding. The wine, however, had been excellent.

The room he was to sleep in for the night so as not to offend Mr. Lightwood’s sense of socially expected chivalry, was outfitted with a bed as big and comfortable as Simon’s had been, and Magnus’ feet were already tangled up in its linen sheets. Despite the luxury, he had been restless since he’d placed his head on the down pillow, and the moon was now high in the sky, visible through the room’s window, round but not full. Not yet.

Magnus kicked the dressings from his legs. He felt hot and uneasy even though he’d already discarded his borrowed pajamas into an unhappy pile on the floor. With a sigh and a wistful glance at the moon, Magnus decided a clip of fresh air might settle his inexplicable nerves. He rose from the mattress and came to the window, unclasping its lock and letting it swing wide. The night air was pleasantly cool on his face and he shut his eyes, breathing deep and enjoying the perfume from the gardens below. 

A splashing sound stirred Magnus from his refreshed reverie, and he opened his eyes, thinking to see a fountain or similar exterior extravagance. But there was no fountain. The splashing sound had originated from the throwing of a stone into the lake, which was sizably modest but gorgeously built upon with lush grass and flowers at its perimeter. Currently, its perimeter boasted the figure of a man as well, his open nightshirt billowing in the breeze as he tossed another stone into the water. 

Magnus knew that outline at once to be that of Mr. Lightwood, and when the man’s stance pivoted and his face was highlighted by the glow of the moon, Magnus’ assertion was proved true. Magnus also discovered in that moment that whether candlelight, daylight, or moonlight, Mr. Lightwood’s face, no, his entire form and everything it was made up of, was the undeniably, noxiously, most beautiful combination of lines and shapes that Magnus had ever witnessed outside the pages of one of his books. How completely frustrating it was that such an artwork could come hand in hand with the bearings of a strange, unsympathetic man.

Still, for as long as Mr. Lightwood walked beside the lake, Magnus could not bring himself to look away. Not once. Contrarily, he drank in the vision before him: the flat, muscled planes of a stomach, the smattering of hair across a broad chest, the strip of exposed neck, elegant and long, the serenity of thick eyebrows for once not fighting some internal battle of emotions. Mr. Lightwood lifted his face upward, toward the stars, and Magnus could see his shoulders rise and fall with his breath. Magnus thought of his beautiful Isabelle, to whom he wrote love letters, and did not feel as bad for her as he had before, for even though she must deal with Mr. Lightwood’s regrettable manners, at least she could feel free to observe him plainly, not hidden by the night, spying from an open window.

Mr. Lightwood stalked the grounds for ten minutes more with no apparent tasks other than to exist simply. Magnus lowered his head, half hiding behind the windowsill, in case Mr. Lightwood should look up and catch his audience, but he need not because the man stared straight ahead as he made his way back inside. Only when he had vanished from view did Magnus, leaving his window open, return to the bed in a heap of confusion. The fresh air had cured him temporarily but now there was a peculiar heat sprawling through his stomach and downward, making him tingle. It was distracting and sleep continued to evade him. 

Damn Mr. Lightwood, thought Magnus, trying to fathom the audacity of a man who disturbs one’s sanctity of sleep. He tossed unhappily onto his stomach and tried not to think about Alec Lightwood’s face as his lips had formed that extraordinary almost-smile.


	3. Chapter 3

The morning was made awkward for a series of reasons, one of which was Magnus’ difficulty of looking at Mr. Lightwood without imagining his bare chest. It made asking for him to pass the fruit spread a trying thing.

And the relief of Simon being well enough to join them for breakfast was speedily weighted down with the misfortune of having his guardian announced at the exact moment Mr. Lightwood was handing Magnus the dish of blackberry fruit spread, Magnus’ hand spasming at the sudden onslaught of the butler’s voice and causing his fingers to brush unwillingly against Mr. Lightwood’s. Magnus had not needed to know the man’s skin on the edge of his index finger was warm and smooth, but there he suddenly was with the knowledge.

“A Mr. Santiago and a Ms. Morgenstern, sirs.”

Magnus jerked his hand back and the dish of blackberry spread clattered to the table. Mr. Lightwood stared at the dark juices as they seeped into the creamy tablecloth. Ashamed by his clumsiness, Magnus stood from his chair and crossed to the root of the mess, hovering over the spent spread with his napkin, but Mr. Lightwood was standing now as well, and he tried to shoo Magnus away with a wave of his own napkin so that he might clean the mess himself. So it was that their heads were very close together and when Magnus looked up, so did Mr. Lightwood, and Magnus noticed the barest hint of green amongst the golden brown, and the scar across the arch of the left brow that he had not noticed before. Aware of his tendency to stare into those eyes overly long, Magnus took a hasty step back from the table, but not before snagging his berry soaked napkin on the water pitcher and nearly knocking it over. With eerily fast reflexes, Mr. Lightwood grabbed for the pitcher’s handle and righted it before it could tumble. Secondary crisis averted, he looked up at Magnus with the same half-smile that had kept Magnus from sleep.

But the debacle of the fruit spread and its aftermath was abolished in light of the two newcomers entering the room at the behest of the butler’s crooking finger. 

“Mr. Santiago,” Magnus heard Mr. Herondale say, and he reminded himself with a scold that he should not be staring at Mr. Lightwood’s lips, eyes, or any other part, as he was rude and undeserving of Magnus’ gaze. 

He let his soiled napkin fall to the table and stepped away, breaking the magnetic field of Mr. Lightwood’s face. He turned and found himself face to face with Raphael, who was appraising Magnus incredulously, his eyes settling on Magnus’ dirtied trouser legs with a twitch of censure. Magnus had dressed that morning in the clothes he’d worn the day before, and the fact that he was wearing more dried mud and less eye makeup than he was used to only added to the overall discomfiture of the morning. Nevertheless, he kept his chin aloft and greeted his guardian with a smile. 

Raphael, however, had more pressing matters to attend, and he brisked past Magnus to reach Simon, who was sitting at the table looking somewhat shell shocked. Mr. Herondale was standing at Simon’s side, his hand resting on the rail of his chair. He bowed graciously as Raphael approached them both, and Magnus resigned himself to stand at Clary’s side, exchanging wry smiles. 

“My dear Simon,” said Raphael, cupping his youngest wards cheek in his palm. “Thank the Angel you are feeling better.” He turned to Mr. Herondale and gushed, “Oh, Mr. Herondale, thank you for taking such splendid care of our dearest Simon.”

Mr. Herondale, whom Magnus had grown to appreciate was a master of many social hurtles, clasped his hands together and fixed Raphael with a beaming smile and shining eyes. “It was an honor.” 

Clary discreetly nudged Magnus in the ribs and he rolled his eyes at her, which might have been a mistake, because when he looked back up Mr. Lightwood was practically glowering at him. It was no bother. Soon Magnus would be privileged to leave the Institute and hopefully never have dire need to return. The grumpy Mr. Lightwood’s disconcerting looks would be a laughable detail of the past and he would never again be so distastefully scandalized. 

Mr. Herondale was chattering away with Raphael, Simon sitting red-faced between them, when Clary decided to seize Magnus’ plan of a permanent escape and dash out its figurative brains. 

“Oh, Mr. Herondale, have you heard that the officers will be coming through town?” When the blond man nodded interestedly at Clary’s question, she asked another, one that made Magnus have to stifle his corresponding groan behind his hand. “You should throw another ball! For the officers! It would be so wonderful.”

At her exclamation, Mr. Herondale raised his eyebrows and looked pointedly at Mr. Lightwood. “It would be a shame to turn down an opportunity to dance, would it not, Mr. Lightwood?”

Mr. Lightwood, who had been steadily gazing at Magnus during the exchange, flicked his eyes downwards, towards his seemingly interesting shoes. Perhaps, Magnus thought with disdain, they were shiny enough to see his reflection, and the man was vain as well as unmannered. 

Without waiting for a word from his friend, since he most likely would have been waiting forever, Mr. Herondale announced that “a ball for the officers is a glorious idea,” and Magnus’ heart felt swollen in his chest for reasons he couldn’t quite say. 

 

\--

 

Once home, Magnus insisted Simon skip his morning chores in lieu of a day of bed rest. “To be sure,” he’d said with a hard look towards Raphael, “that he is not reclaimed by illness.” They sat upon Simon’s bed now, Magnus tucking the covers up around his brother whilst poetic garble about Mr. Herondale filled the air. 

“I like him so much,” Simon said, lifting his head obediently so Magnus might fluff the pillow beneath. “He makes me laugh. And his laugh! Magnus, he thinks I’m funny. And the way he says my name…” At Magnus’ lack of a response, Simon grabbed his wrist, making his bracelets chime, commanding his attention. “What do you think of Jace? Do you think he really likes me?”

Magnus placed his hand on Simon’s, removing his grip so he could smooth the covers down, and then, with all the earnestness he could muster, he answered his brother. “Have you not seen the way Mr. Herondale looks at you? Simon, he adores you. There is no doubt in my mind. Especially if he cares enough to lie and tell you he thinks your jokes are funny.”

Simon playfully slapped at Magnus’ hand and they shared a quiet laugh in the sun strewn room. But Magnus could not remain at Simon’s side all day; he had double the chores ahead of him, and was already dreading the moment when he’d realize the mud would not come out of his leather pants. As he rose to meet the day’s challenges, Simon’s voice stopped him.

“Mr. Lightwood is handsome,” he said.

Magnus looked down at Simon suspiciously. “Yes, I daresay he is.” He turned, crossing to the door, where Simon’s next words gave him a second pause.

“Have you not seen the way he looks at you?”

Turning in the doorframe, Magnus forced a smile on his face. “I don’t need to see the look on his face to know exactly what Mr. Lightwood thinks of me, Simon.”

Mr. Lightwood thought him ‘a bit much’, was offended by glitter, and would sooner drown himself in blackberry spread than dance with Magnus Bane, and Magnus reminded himself of these facts and more as he excused himself from his brother’s side and made his way downstairs.

The look on his face must have been sour as he counted his dislikes of Mr. Lightwood, because when he happened across Luke in the hall outside his study his guardian touched his shoulder and looked at him with a worried frown. 

“Magnus, what’s wrong?”

At being asked such a question, Magnus automatically waved a carefree hand before his face and smiled. “Nothing at all, of course. Don’t I look like the picture of carefree extravagance?” He squared his shoulders, knowing Luke was taking in his usual armor, blessedly mud free thanks to the quick grooming he’d managed at the first opportunity. His hair was not as high on his head today, but soft and flowing in favor of his left side. The ends were no longer dipped in purple paints but returned to a naturally uniform black, albeit with a formidable dose of silver shimmer. The rest of his person matched accordingly, with eyelids painted in a metal sheen and dark silvers patterning his vest. Armor.

“Well you won’t be so carefree once you hear what Mr. Santiago has to say,” Luke said, pushing his glasses up on his nose before turning the doorknob to his study. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He winked at Magnus before disappearing behind the closed door, leaving Magnus alone in the hallway with a heightened curiosity.

In the kitchen, Clary and Raphael were chopping vegetables. Magnus reached for an apron before he could be told to put one on and then joined his sister and guardian at the counter, clearing his throat to announce his presence.

“Oh no, Magnus,” Raphael chided, bumping him out of the way with his hip. “You’re not to be helping us cook today, but remedying your brother’s best frock. We’ve a visitor joining us for dinner. An esteemed cousin.”

Magnus wrinkled his brow, already removing the apron since it clashed something wretched with his ensemble. “An esteemed cousin who needs to see Simon in his best frock? What cousin could that possibly be?”

“His name is Mr. Raj,” Raphael said as his knife flashed, sending shards of carrot flying. Magnus noted with a snort that Clary had several pieces of different vegetables already lodged in her hair. Luckily, the carrots camouflaged nicely. “He has just recently become a clergyman of a well to-do parish outside of Idris, and as he has an interest in the family, I thought it only proper to invite him here to dine with us, and perhaps stay for a little while.”

“Of course he has an interest in the family if we are his family,” Magnus said, not quite understanding but feeling astutely unsettled by the entire affair. “Why have we never heard of a Mr. Raj before and what has spurred you to invite him here for the first time?” 

“Clergymen should be paid with the high respect they deserve, Magnus,” Raphael scolded. “And now that Mr. Raj has reached a station of higher respect, he feels it would be beneficial to the family as a whole if he…came to visit.”

Magnus cocked an eyebrow at Clary, but she only shrugged in return, clearly as befuddled as Magnus. “Well,” he said, spinning on his toes and hanging his apron back on its hook, “we can’t have Simon looking less than fabulous in his lackluster frock.” He lifted a finger and shook it, trying on his most serious face. “I better go see what I can do to make sure Mr. Raj isn’t disappointed.”

“Don’t dawdle, Magnus,” Raphael said, his voice muffled by the high pile of potatoes now balanced in his arms. “Mr. Raj is expected for supper tonight.”

“Oh dear,” he gasped, all too glad for his decent excuse to leave the kitchen. Only when he passed the closed door of Luke’s study did he wonder what it was about Mr. Raj that had caused Luke such obvious disgruntlement. The men must have crossed paths before. Magnus hummed thoughtfully to himself, speculating whether or not the evening would be filled with palpable discord. He supposed, as he reached for his sewing kit in the sitting room, that everyone had acquaintances they disliked seeing, and it was simply a part of life to be occasionally coerced into their presence. Surely Mr. Raj would not be so bad as Mr. Lightwood. 

Magnus settled himself in his favorite chair by the window and began work on the stack of fabrics needing mending, his eyes seeing tired cloth while the vision of a moonlit face played unstoppably in the theatre of his mind.

 

\--

 

Simon was quite recovered and looking handsome in his ‘best frock’ when Mr. Raj arrived later that evening. Magnus had combed his sibling’s stubborn hair into something vaguely resembling a style and even rubbed a discreet amount of rouge into his cheeks to rid them of the overt paleness caused by his recent sickness. After Simon had been pampered to perfection, Magnus had taken Clary by the wrist and guided her into their room, where he’d presented her with a pink ruffled thing, made interesting by Magnus with a low cut neckline, but not too low, and a lacy choker that showed off her dainty neck. As for Magnus himself, he wore black from head to toe, but not to be too somber, every stitch of fabric shimmered with his movement. Needless to say he made an effort to remain in constant movement the whole way through dinner; that turned out to be necessary anyway, as Mr. Raj consistently said such silly things that Magnus was constantly lifting his napkin over his mouth to hide his laughter.

A selection of sentences, taken from the dinner table, which ingrained themselves into Magnus’ brain like so many migraines:

“There are many men and women in Idris who have informed me that I would be considered quite the catch, were I inclined to take a wife. Or husband.”

“I have recently acquired a house, which is quite nice, perhaps not as big as this one, but nicer, and, not to be boastful, but its location is very near the great Lady Maryse, the wealthiest, highest social ranking lady of Idris. She too has told me, as she is of my parish and wholly values my clerical services, that it would be beneficial to my person and parish if I were to take a wife. Or husband.”

“I might look the spiffing image of the ideal professional man, but I assure you I am also quite light on my feet.”

Somehow Magnus survived the meal without spontaneously combusting, something he considered an impressive feat, but things only increased in absurdity once the table was no longer there to maintain acceptable distances. It seemed cousin Raj lacked not only conversational prowess, but had little to no concept of personal space. Magnus’s eyebrows lifted nearly off his forehead when Mr. Raj walked up to Simon in the sitting room, not stopping until they were practically nose to nose. 

“You have a very comely color to your cheeks, Simon,” commented Mr. Raj. “In Idris, good blood flow equates to good health equates to good breeding.”

Simon, looking justifiably horrified, could do nothing but nod his head and hope the movement did not cause his nose to brush up against Mr. Raj’s.

Later in the evening, as Magnus was slipping from the room to steal a sip of whiskey from his flask, he heard the soft rumblings of a hushed conversation happening around the corner. He carefully turned his ear toward the voices, which turned out to belong to Mr. Raj and, perhaps not so surprisingly, Raphael. 

“I must confess I find your middle ward very fine, Raphael, very, very fine,” came Mr. Raj’s rushed whisper. Dismayed and bemused, Magnus listened on.

“Our Simon is a catch, it’s true, Mr. Raj,” agreed Raphael in a tone Magnus recognized. It was similar to the tone used when bartering for a better price at the butcher. “But I regret to inform you that I have reason to believe Simon will be engaged to be married soon.”

“Is that so?” asked Raj, sounding less disappointed and more like he was working out a thorny puzzle. 

“My eldest ward, however,” Raphael said, “is free as a bird.”

From his hiding place around the corner, Magnus grimaced at his guardian’s audacity to offer him up on their cousin’s altar of upsetting marital advances and had half a mind to burst in on their little scene and create an upset. But a small voice in his head reminded him that such a showing of bad manners would be ‘a bit much,’ and so he remained silent. Besides, it was the second time in as many days that Magnus had the opportunity to overhear what someone’s honest impression of him was, and he could not say he was disinterested in hearing his quirky cousin’s answer.

“Magnus Bane,” said Mr. Raj slowly, thoughtfully, “is not without his own charms, I suppose.”

“He is very charming,” Raphael was quick to agree. “Many have said so. He has had several suitors in the past. Is he not handsome?”

“He is not unattractive. Though I do believe a disposition like Simon’s would be more acceptable among my parish.”

Magnus decided to stop listening then, continuing on his original trek up the stairs and into his room, where he shut the door softly behind him and cut a straight line for his flask on the windowsill. He picked it up and sat himself down in front of the mirror, taking a deep sip and watching his prominent Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed gulp after gulp of the amber drink. After several swallows he stopped, setting the flask aside and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. A smudge of red-tinted balm came away from his lips. He looked at his reflection for a moment, wondering how it was no one seemed to see him, and then reapplied the balm to his lips and rejoined the terrible company downstairs.

 

\--

 

The sun shone brightly the next day and Magnus used that as an excuse to usher his siblings and himself from the house for what he’d explained to Raphael “might be the majority of the day.” Since Mr. Raj had indeed decided to stay for more than one dinner and Magnus didn’t feel much like sharing walls with him the entire afternoon, he decided it was as good a time as any to walk into town and go shopping, under the veil of an excuse that they all needed something new for the upcoming officer’s ball. If Simon wanted to snare Mr. Herondale, he couldn’t keep wearing the same clothes, could he? Raphael had agreed wholeheartedly that no, he could not, and so now Magnus was walking through town with Simon and Clary with a modest weight of coins in his purse. 

Magnus led them into his favorite little corner shop, veering to the side to examine their newest Idris makeup imports while Clary darted straight for the showcase of rainbow colored ribbons, dragging Simon with her. A ruby red sparkle of color caught his attention, pulling it away from a palette of black-blue eye shadows, and Magnus followed the sparkle, finding it belonging to a woman standing beside him, admiring the same section of makeup. She was petite, with small wrists that reached delicate looking hands towards the display, but there was a fierceness to her face that betrayed her to be anything but meek. Magnus fancied he liked her at once. He found the shine of her red lips so enchanting that he failed to notice she was dressed in officer’s attire until she addressed him directly.

“Gorgeous,” she said. 

Magnus smiled flirtatiously as he motioned toward the eye shadows now in her hand. “Those colors would work beautifully with your skin tone,” he told her. 

She smiled and looked up at him beneath long lashes, as if to convey she held some earth shattering secret. Magnus thought he would not be so surprised to learn she did, a woman with a smile like that. “Sweet thing,” she said, holding the palette of midnight blues, shimmery like the night sky and near as black, like powdered velvet, up to his own face. “I meant for you.”

Startled and pleased, Magnus laughed, which drew the attention of Clary and Simon. They came running to his side right away, spools of ribbons tangling from their hands. The woman officer gave each bright eyed sibling a full-fledged officer’s bow, and Clary practically shrieked with delight.

“Who is your new friend, Magnus?” Clary asked. 

“Magnus?” asked the woman, sounding satisfied. 

Magnus so enjoyed the satisfaction in her tone that he returned to her a bow of his own. “I am Magnus Bane. These are my younger siblings, Clary Morgenstern and Simon Lewis.”

“Mr. Bane,” she repeated with a grin. “And Ms. Morgenstern, Mr. Lewis. I am Camille Belcourt, officer of the Brooklyn regiment.”

“Ms. Belcourt,” Clary gushed, her ribbons swirling in the air from her extravagant hand movements, “you must attend the officer’s ball tomorrow night! All the officers are invited!”

Ms. Belcourt smiled indulgently at Clary, then glanced up at Magnus with that same engaging flutter of her long, curled lashes. “Will you be there?” she asked, and though she was staring directly at Magnus, Clary was the one who answered, oblivious. 

“We’re all going to attend Mr. Herondale’s ball! Do say you’ll come, Ms. Belcourt!”

Magnus smiled apologetically, but Clary’s enthusiasm didn’t seem to bother Ms. Belcourt in the least. She tucked a loose tendril of chestnut hair behind her ear, leading Magnus’ eyes to scan the elegant, soft skin of her throat. “It would be my pleasure,” she said. 

After more squeaks of excitement Clary began dragging Magnus toward the shop counter so he could pay for the ribbons she’d collected to wear in her hair. Magnus, knowing the bulk of her selection would prevent spending on anything else, gave the pretty makeup display a final, sad little glance. It was not until they had left the shop that Ms. Belcourt followed after them, stopping Magnus with a hand around his bicep. He arched an eyebrow at her as she placed the palette of deep blues into the palm of his hand.

“It would be a shame not to see you wearing it,” she told him, and her eyes were so beguiling, the line of her ruby red lips so certain, Magnus wordlessly slipped the gift into his coat pocket and proceeded to ask Ms. Belcourt whether or not her schedule was free for the rest of the day.

 

\--

 

They walked together from town after Ms. Belcourt had courteously offered to see Magnus back home, but the small party had grown distracted amidst the forest paths and the bountiful sunlight of the day streaking gloriously through the trees. It was the prettiest day Magnus could remember seeing in some time, and his companions appeared to agree, so before they were too far from the house, in a clearing of trees beside a stream, they settled for a leisurely rest. 

Magnus found that conversation with Ms. Belcourt was easy. She always had something to say, and her boldness brought an excited feeling to Magnus. It was rare to meet such a strong lady with such a strong countenance of spirit, and he was enjoying her company immensely. It did not hurt that Ms. Belcourt steadily treated him with divinely devious, inviting looks, and paraded him with a slew of compliments. Vain as it might be, Magnus selfishly enjoyed hearing that someone found his appearance pleasing, after the dubious reviews from Mr. Raj and the infuriating Mr. Lightwood.

Magnus had excused himself from their group for a moment to enjoy a drink from his flask, leaving Simon and Clary behind with Ms. Belcourt (she was passing out apples they’d collected during their walk past the orchard) when a strange noise made him tense up. He whipped his head around, trying to discern the direction of the sound. At first, there was only silence as he listened, and then there it was again: a whirring followed by a heavy-hitting thud. Magnus quickly put away his flask and pushed his way through an overhanging of dense leaves. Once he saw what sight awaited him in the clearing beyond, he cursed his nosiness. 

The sounds he’d heard had been the piercing of an arrow through the trunk of a tree, and the arrows, as fate would cruelly have it, belonged to Mr. Lightwood. He still held his bow aloft, his eyes widening as Magnus appeared in the makeshift archery range. 

“Mr. Bane,” he said, and the man must have been so genuinely surprised to see Magnus standing there that he forgot to include the usual disapproving inflection to his voice; the way he spoke Magnus’ name was soft and careful, with something akin to a stutter at its beginning.

Magnus did not know where to look; so many options were presented before him. Mr. Lightwood was casually dressed, his fine overcoat hanging over the low branch of a tree and the ties at his throat undone so that his collar blossomed outward and his neck, shining lightly with sweat, glistened in a beam of sun. His legs were long and lean in tight fitted riding pants, his booted feet planted firmly. As he slowly lowered the bow, his shoulders flexed beneath the thin linen of his shirt and he exhaled roughly, sending a fall of hair that had broken free of its brethren fluttering from his eyes. And his eyes, Magnus found with what he dearly hoped was an inaudible gasp, were as consuming as ever before, with thick lashes casting sweet shadows on his cheekbones as he rapidly blinked, almost as though he expected Magnus to vanish as quickly as he’d appeared. 

“Alec!” 

The familiar voice was shortly joined by a familiar face as Mr. Herondale cut through the far side of trees an instant later. He held his own bow in his hand and was out of breath. 

“I found a far superior spot for our sport, behind us a stretch,” Mr. Herondale began before noticing Magnus. “Mr. Bane!” he exclaimed merrily. “What a pleasant surprise. Was Mr. Lightwood boring you to tears with talk of his archery expertise?” 

“I only just stumbled upon him,” Magnus said, glancing warily between the two men. Mr. Herondale’s cheeks were pink with exercise and his shoulders were loose and easy. Mr. Lightwood, on the other hand, was strung as tight as his bow. 

“Lucky for you then, Mr. Bane, as archery is one of few topics our Mr. Lightwood can handle with any finesse when conversing with a pretty face.” He poked Mr. Lightwood with the tip of his bow. “You know he’s a champion in Idris. With the bow and arrow, not with the pretty faces,” Mr. Herondale said with a wink.

Mr. Lightwood cleared his throat loudly, his feet shuffling over the soft grass. “Have you read any good books lately, Mr. Bane?” he suddenly asked. His bow was still gripped tightly in his fist, but his face was not as pale a shade of white as it had been a few seconds before. 

Magnus quirked his head, wondering if he had heard the man correctly. Surely Mr. Lightwood was not attempting to pursue conversation. “I have been too busy, as of late, to begin any new books, Mr. Lightwood,” he answered cautiously, though it was a lie. Magnus had in fact begun reading a new book recently, but there was no way he would reveal the tawdry title to the gentleman in front of him. 

After a pause, Mr. Lightwood said, so softly Magnus wondered if he was merely thinking aloud, “I have an extensive library at my estate in Idris.”

“Not too busy being accomplished to read, I see,” commented Magnus, and he was instantly ashamed to reveal his lingering bitterness over their previous meeting. But Mr. Lightwood, strangely enough, did not prickle at Magnus’ comment. Instead, a full smile spread across his face, wide and dazzling, crinkling his eyes and humiliating the sun for its brilliance. 

“My sister loves to read,” said Mr. Lightwood. “I cultivate the library for her as often as I can.”

“Oh,” was Magnus’ response, small and breathless and all he could manage with his heart threatening to beat out of his chest. But that smile – if it didn’t strike him like crushed tree bark beneath the piercing of an arrow.

“Are you out here traveling alone, Mr. Bane?” Mr. Herondale asked, placing himself directly in Magnus’ field of vision, for which he was thankful. If not for an interruption, Magnus was unsure he would be able to rip his eyes from Mr. Lightwood. 

He gathered himself with a few steadying breaths before he answered. “No, Mr. Herondale, I’ve come from town with my siblings and a new friend.”

“Simon!” Mr. Herondale said, his eyes alight, and it took Magnus a moment to realize he was not asking after Simon, but announcing his presence, for certainly, when Magnus turned around, Simon was standing in the clearing with Clary and Ms. Belcourt in tow.

Mr. Herondale dashed to Simon’s side and bowed. “If my day gets any better I shall burst,” he announced. 

Simon blushed profusely and Magnus couldn’t help but look back to Mr. Lightwood. When he did, the change was staggering. The smile that had split his face was utterly gone, and in its place a terrible glower was brewing, knotting his formidable brows, narrowing his eyes, and shaping his lips into a fearsome snarl. To Magnus’ chagrin, the expression did not diminish the beauty of Mr. Lightwood’s face, only altered it, making him appear darker, fiercer. The look brought conflicting sensations to Magnus, most notable of which was a familiar tingling low in his abdomen.

“Mr. Herondale, Mr. Lightwood,” Clary was saying, brushing up beside Magnus, “have you met Ms. Belcourt? She’s an officer of the Brooklyn regiment.”

Magnus watched in awe as Mr. Lightwood raised his bow, knocked it with a fresh arrow, and aimed it directly at Ms. Belcourt.

“Alec, honestly,” said Mr. Herondale, leaving Simon’s side to place a tentative hand on his friend’s shoulder, which did nothing to appease Mr. Lightwood’s murderous stance. 

“Mr. Bane,” growled Mr. Lightwood, and Magnus lifted his eyebrows, entranced. “Please remove your new friend from my presence.”

Magnus scoffed at Mr. Lightwood’s command, but looked back at Ms. Belcourt all the same, determining her reaction. She was backing slowly away with her hands lifted before her in a gesture of innocence. Her dark eyes were round and her mouth open in a surprised ‘O’, pulling from Magnus a sense of duty to protect her. Shooting a scowl over his shoulder at Mr. Lightwood, he placed himself at Ms. Belcourt’s side, taking her wrist gently and leading her away. 

“Come, Ms. Belcourt,” Magnus said scathingly. “It seems not even the presence of an officer can mend Mr. Lightwood’s manners.” After one more glare at Mr. Lightwood, whose returning gaze was appallingly heated, Magnus bowed shortly to Mr. Herondale and tugged at Ms. Belcourt, disappearing them through the trees and away from Mr. Lightwood’s fury.

Simon’s rushed apologies to Mr. Herondale and some inappropriate sniggering from Clary could be heard through the wall of leaves and twigs before they rejoined Magnus and Ms. Belcourt. Right away they continued their journey homeward, Ms. Belcourt clearly wishing to escape any rogue arrows. Magnus found himself totally distracted by thoughts of sleek forearms pulling an arrow taut as they left the forest to walk through the fields behind the house. It was only when Simon and Clary had rushed ahead to collect flowers for the dinner table that Ms. Belcourt won his attention anew. She stopped walking and exhaled a tired sigh. “I suppose you want to know what that was all about.”

“Only if you wish to tell me,” replied Magnus, desperately wanting to know. 

“After that display, I must,” she said, shaking her head. “What you must think of me.”

“I am no fan of Mr. Lightwood’s,” he said, still trying to rid the image of strong arms bracing a bow from his head. “Trust me when I say this afternoon’s incident has only increased my dislike of him and done nothing in disservice to my opinion of you.”

“That is a relief,” said Ms. Belcourt. “But I cannot help but feel sorry for Mr. Lightwood. You see, we’ve known one another for a long time, since we were children.”

Magnus could hardly imagine Mr. Lightwood as a child, but he nodded understandingly, imploring her to continue.

“I was Robert Lightwood’s ward,” she began. “He was kind enough to take me in as a child when my parents died. He was responsible for my education, my financial supporter. He was a good man.” Her eyes were lightly misted. “When he died, he left me a great sum of money and Alec – Mr. Lightwood – was extremely jealous. He always had been. Just because I was Robert’s favorite.”

“Sounds like Mr. Lightwood,” mumbled Magnus in agreement.

“Well, he was so jealous and spiteful, he defied his father’s dying words and refused to grant me the money I was owed. I had no choice but to enlist, destitute as I suddenly found myself.”

“How awful,” gasped Magnus, genuinely surprised. He had thought Mr. Lightwood was rude and unnerving, but he’d never guessed him to be callous and completely void of character. 

“You must not hate him on my account, Mr. Bane,” Ms. Belcourt said. Her curls caught the wind and filled Magus’ nose with a spicy floral scent. “It must pain him to see me, I know. And as I said, I harbor no ill will toward him; he was like my brother, after all. I consider losing him as family a great loss.”

Magnus nodded gravely, looking back to the tree line. Somewhere amongst the birches and buckthorns, Mr. Lightwood was loosing his arrow, his powerful shoulders tensing, his breath releasing from soft pink lips. Why did such an intriguing shape need to be made up of malice? It was a cruel twist of narrative. Mr. Lightwood was like a devilish creature in one of his books that could not be entirely understood until the final chapter. But Magnus was convinced, now more than ever, the only reveals such a man had to offer was evidence of more unkindness and an overall intolerable nature.


	4. Chapter 4

Magnus dipped into the palette of midnight blue. The color came away on the pad of his finger, rich and sparkling. With practiced swipes, he generously shadowed each eyelid. His charcoal stick smudged thick, dark lines beneath his eyes, winging outward. He kept his lips pale, save for the natural redness that accompanied his anxious biting. 

His hair was voluminous, elegantly spiked with sky-blue tips, matching the rainbow of blue hues in the stones of his rings, which were several and shining on his fingers. With makeup and hair completed, Magnus glimpsed his bare body in the mirror: a slim expanse of golden skin and lean muscle. His torso was flat and dusted with the lightest trail of hair. Flecks of glitter riddled his smooth chest and he brushed his hand across it, imagining the phantom bristle of hair and hard pectorals, white with moonlight. 

He shook his head, breaking contact with the pupil-blown eyes of his reflection. Tonight, he would dance with Ms. Belcourt and his clothes would match the gift she had given him. He would not look at Mr. Lightwood nor think of him even a little. Magnus sighed as he slid the silk top over his shoulders and buttoned every button until his neck was a column of black sheen and rhinestone. Then he added his waistcoat, dusky blue with lighter hints spidering over the cloth like electric shocks of glitter. His trousers were black leather, and snug about his hips. Simple for Magnus, but he wanted the focus to be his eyes, wanted Ms. Belcourt to look at him and know he wore her generosity on his skin. And if he wanted Mr. Lightwood to see him sparkling from across the ballroom, since the man would most definitely keep an insulting distance between them, then that was Magnus’ business. 

One final time, he eyed his reflection. He looked like the night sky, and he would strive to be as carefree. He spritzed himself with perfume, something subtle and mysterious, and then made his way downstairs, where the rest of the household was already waiting by the carriage.

 

\--

 

When Magnus followed his family into the Institute, he couldn’t believe he was passing through the vast front doors of the estate for the third time in a week. The foyer was filled with the twinkling lights of a hundred candles, and the air was filled with the excited chatter of a hundred guests and the rambunctious twill of musicians eager to play. Magnus felt an eagerness within himself, churning maddeningly as he passed through the archway into the ballroom. Simon squeezed Magnus’ shoulder before splitting off from the others and Magnus knew he was looking for Mr. Herondale. Clary bounced happily, spotting a friend, and Magnus watched her ribbons trailing behind her as she melted into the crowd of officers. A moment later, Raphael was dragging Luke to the drinks (drinks being among the two things Raphael had used to coerce his partner into attending the ball, the other being that Mr. Garroway needed to actually meet the man who would very likely become Simon’s husband soon.) 

Magnus was alone. His glittering eyes raked the overfull room for Ms. Belcourt, but in the sea of white uniforms, he could not discern her image. He could, however, discern a tapping on his shoulder and remembered he was not nearly as alone as he’d thought. Unfortunately.

“Mr. Bane,” came the obnoxious voice behind him and Magnus rolled his eyes before turning to face Mr. Raj. 

Magnus’ cousin was dressed well enough, even if his hair was a touch slick, making his face seem too big above the white collar of his coat. It was not, necessarily, the appearance of Mr. Raj that made Magnus uneasy, but the greasy sort of aura surrounding him, all slick comments and sticky looks. He could tell right away that Mr. Raj was on the verge of asking Magnus a question he prayed not hear, but before the man could open his mouth Magnus spied Ragnor Fell crossing behind him, and he hollered out his name at such a volume that several people looked up who did not answer to the name of ‘Ragnor’ at all.

Though audaciously supercilious on the best of days, apparently even Ragnor could not ignore his best friend’s face, which was twisted into a silent plea for help. When Magnus realized his cry was successful and Ragnor was heading in their direction, he smiled at Mr. Raj and splayed his hand to alter the direction of his cousin’s beady gaze. 

“Cousin, this is Ragnor Fell, my best friend,” said Magnus, changing his alignment to stand beside Ragnor. 

“Dear Magnus, I think you mean your only friend,” replied Ragnor as he extended his hand for Mr. Raj. 

Mr. Raj took Ragnor’s hand in his and awkwardly ducked to peck it with his lips. With his head still lowered, Magnus and Ragnor exchanged amused looks. But the kissed greeting was all too brief and Mr. Raj was shortly upright again, his eyes back to Magnus, and the intention in them unwavering.

“You look very attractive to me this evening,” said Mr. Raj. “I would be made satisfied if you agreed to dance with me.”

Magnus could practically feel the vibration of Ragnor’s laughter and it distracted him from finding his words of refusal quickly enough. When Mr. Raj extended his arm, his terrible friend kicked at Magnus’ heels, making him take a step forward against his will. 

“Magnus was telling me earlier how dearly he wished to dance with you this evening,” Ragnor lied, the fabulous traitor, and in a moment of nightmarish whirlwinds, Magnus felt his arm link through his cousin’s and he was being swept away to the center of the ballroom, just in time for a new dance to begin. 

When the music started, Magnus’ eyes searched wildly for any sign of Ms. Belcourt, but he saw no ruby smiles or chestnut curls of her specific luster. He stepped forward twice with lifted hands and turned in a circle, bouncing with light feet and clapping his hands, highly aware of Mr. Raj staring at his backside as he did so. Upon their second turnabout, while moving down the line of dancers, Magnus caught sight of something tall and dark in his peripheral. Mr. Raj moved toward him, taking his waist and lifting him off the floor in a little jump, and then Magnus spun around with another clap of his hands, and there he was, Mr. Lightwood, standing a few yards away, watching Magnus dance.

Magnus missed a step of the dance and Mr. Raj stepped hard on his foot. 

“I believe it is customary, when engaging in a dance, that one pays attention to one’s partner,” Mr. Raj hissed beneath his breath, and Magnus clenched his jaw. It seemed Mr. Lightwood would have his way humiliating him this evening whether they physically interacted or not. 

“Ahem!” coughed Mr. Raj, and Magnus was startled to comprehend that he had been staring back at Mr. Lightwood with embarrassing intensity. He whipped his head around to face Mr. Raj’s frown. Mr. Raj reached out his open hand and Magnus reached out with his own, but when their palms touched, Mr. Raj’s skin felt sweaty and hot, and Magnus looked over his shoulder at Mr. Lightwood, as if the man could somehow tell. He heard his cousin huff again in displeasure, but it was not such a simple thing, looking away. 

Mr. Lightwood was standing away from the dancing with his arms crossed over his chest, successfully closing himself off, Magnus thought, from being asked to partake. He wore black coattails and a trimming black waistcoat, but the shirt beneath was crisp white. Magnus could not see his neck for the cravat tucked primly beneath his chin. He looked his usual self, stiff and uncomfortable and unorthodoxly stunning. His hair was tousled, bringing to mind the image of long fingers combing nervously through it. His eyebrows were furrowed in concentration and his golden brown eyes glittered like the makeup on Magnus’ face. Did Mr. Lightwood find Magnus’ appearance so offensive that he had to stand there glowering at him like a villain? 

Mr. Raj’s face popped in front of Magnus, making him jump, and his cousin ushered him through the last oscillations of the dance, muttering beneath his breath about respecting one’s superiors and loving the clergy. With one more sweaty-palmed touch and a jump to the left, the dance was over, and Magnus was so quick to abandon Mr. Raj, the violin was still wheezing its final note. 

Magnus found Ragnor where he’d left him, only now his friend had a drink in his hand and a smug expression on his face. 

“That was the clumsiest dancing I’ve ever seen,” Ragnor said lazily. 

Magnus fiddled with the necklaces around his throat, eyes sweeping the room as he said, “Yes, thank you for forcing me to endure Mr. Raj’s stumbling. I owe you a humiliation.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean Mr. Raj, darling.” Ragnor lifted his glass in a mocking toast. “”It was you who looked like a newborn fawn on his legs for the first time. Did Mr. Lightwood have you so distracted you forgot how to dance?”

Outraged, Magnus took the drink from Ragnor’s hand and finished it off. “I was looking for a new friend of mine, actually,” he said. Ragnor did not need to know he had been ensnared by Mr. Lightwood yet again. “Camille Belcourt. She’s an officer, and I had it on good authority she’d be in attendance tonight.”

It happened that right as Magnus spoke those very words, an older officer was walking past. At the sound of Ms. Belcourt’s name, he stopped and offered a polite bow to Magnus and Ragnor, informing them that Officer Belcourt was not, for a fact, attending the ball, but that he would be happy to relay any messages. After informing the man that no, that wouldn’t be necessary, Magnus was the very picture of vexation. 

“You clash with your clothes when your face gets that red,” Ragnor warned. 

“Ms. Belcourt said she was coming tonight,” Magnus fumed. “I bet Mr. Lightwood disallowed it. I swear, Ragnor, that man is -”

“– right behind you,” Ragnor hastened sharply.

Magnus turned around quickly to dispel his friend’s ruse, only to find that Ragnor had not lied. There Mr. Lightwood stood, a mere foot away and so tall, Magnus had to look up to meet his eyes.

Mr. Lightwood bowed, and then, with what appeared to be devout concentration, he asked, very seriously, “May I have the next dance, Mr. Bane?”

Unthinkingly, automatically, ludicrously, Magnus answered: “You may.”

Mr. Lightwood might have looked as shocked as Magnus felt, but the following seconds felt like a nonsensical blur as Mr. Lightwood managed another bow and retreated, leaving Magnus staring after him in disbelief. If not for Ragnor poking him endlessly, Magnus would have thought the entire sequence a hallucination. 

“Did Mr. Lightwood just ask you to dance?” 

“I think he did,” breathed Magnus. 

“And you said yes, you trollop. But you hate him,” Ragnor snickered sarcastically.

“I do,” Magnus insisted, and even to him his words sounded weak, almost as weak as his knees. 

Ragnor shook his head. “Off you go then,” he said, nudging at Magnus’ shin with the tip of his velvet-toed shoe. “Go dance with Mr. Lightwood. And let me know what he smells like, would you? He looks like he smells delicious.”

Magnus glared at his friend, but his feet were already moving him toward the center of the ballroom. Nothing felt real as he approached Mr. Lightwood, who was waiting for him at the end of the row of dancers. Magnus placed himself across the aisle, directly in front of Mr. Lightwood, and then the music started up again. Something slow. Mr. Lightwood bent his head in a courteous bow, Magnus followed suit, and then the dance began. 

Magnus knew from experience that he would not be able to keep his eyes from fastening to Mr. Lightwood’s bewitching face for the duration of their shared dance, but he could counteract his foolishness with the bite of conversation. As Mr. Lightwood stepped up to him, Magnus performed the perfunctory twirl and said, “I had hoped to see my friend here tonight.” 

Mr. Lightwood’s face paled at the comment, twisting an unexpected knot in Magnus’ stomach. “I assume you refer to Camille Belcourt.” He spoke her name as though it was venomous and he needed to rid his tongue of it immediately. 

Mindful to keep his feet in check with the song’s rhythm, Magnus glared at Mr. Lightwood as they double-stepped together in a circle. “I know you had a hand in her absence.”

“Happily so,” Mr. Lightwood said, stepping behind Magnus. Magnus turned to face him, his palms extended. “I find your selection of friend below par.”

Magnus was about to list the things he found below par about Mr. Lightwood, when the man lifted his own hands and, where their hands were only supposed to hover without touching, pressed his palms against Magnus’.

Magnus forgot what he was going to say, forgot anything he had ever said, and focused only on the pressure of Mr. Lightwood’s hand against his. His skin was warm and smooth and his fingers were long and elegant. His whole hand was larger than Magnus’, large enough that one could envelop the other if wished, and there was a delirious moment when Mr. Lightwood’s fingertips twitched, threatening to entwine with Magnus’, but then they had to part completely from each other as the music willed it. Mr. Lightwood stepped back as Magnus walked in a slow circle around him, but their gaze was constant, and after another turnabout, Magnus was stepping back up to Mr. Lightwood and their palms met again, this time with no charade of hesitance. 

Over the past days, Magnus had indulged in several opportunities to stare at Mr. Lightwood, but never had his stares been returned with such ferocity and for so long a period of time. Magnus knew his face was flushed; he could feel the heat in his cheeks. It was a small consolation that a light pink blush was equally spread across his dance partner’s face, impossibly adding to Mr. Lightwood’s already impossible comeliness. 

At such a close distance, their hands joined and their heads turned to face one another, Magnus could newly detect the micro-expressions washing across Mr. Lightwood’s face: wonderment wrinkled in the corners of his eyes, concentration in the thick arch of his eyebrows, nervousness in his parted lips and hurried breaths. Magnus wondered what his own face betrayed. He could see an outline of his form in the expanse of Mr. Lightwood’s pupils, but it was vague. For certain, Magnus must have looked dumbstruck; he felt it enough. His heart was racing; could Mr. Lightwood feel the pulse in his palm? His breath felt staggered; could Mr. Lightwood hear its unevenness? He was dizzy; could Mr. Lightwood detect his imbalance?

The rest of the room became an intangible, trivial thing as Magnus stared into Mr. Lightwood’s eyes and allowed himself to be led. Mr. Lightwood kept their hands pressed together even though the dance suggested they come apart at multiple intervals, separating only when the music finally stopped and their dance came to an end. 

Mr. Lightwood took a small step back from Magnus, who was standing with a slight sway and staring stupidly, as though hypnotized. 

“Thank you,” said Mr. Lightwood in a soft voice, the sound of which shook Magnus from his spell.

“You’re welcome,” he said. 

They bowed to one another, stood a moment longer exchanging curious gazes, and then Magnus ducked his head and turned. He walked away at a rapid pace; past Ragnor’s raised eyebrows, past Raphael drinking by the musicians, past Mr. Herondale laughing uproariously at Simon’s joke, past Clary darting to and fro between officers, until he passed the archway and found himself a secluded spot in the foyer in which to hyperventilate. 

Magnus was overheated. He began to unbutton the top tiers of his shirt, but his fingers were trembling too much to work them open, so he gave up, falling back against the wall and trying to breathe like a normal human again. But he didn’t feel normal. His heart was pounding and his stomach felt as though it’d been flipped topsy turvy. What a feeling he was feeling! And to have been caused by Mr. Lightwood! It was an idea which enraged him. He disliked Mr. Lightwood. Mr. Lightwood disliked him. So why was his body reacting in such a contradictory way? Why was he having a fit in the foyer when he should be enjoying the ball? Why did he feel the intense desire to hide?

He looked down at the hands which had touched Mr. Lightwood’s hands and clenched them into fists. 

 

\--

 

Like most balls, this one went on far too long, and the sun was already rising when the last of the attendees made their leave. Mr. Raj had already taken his seat, his arms crossed disapprovingly while Luke had to support a drunken Raphael on his arm, picking him up and setting him into their waiting carriage. Simon said goodbye to Mr. Herondale, who looked wide awake and happy as he offered his hand and helped him into the carriage. He helped Clary scramble inside next. And then Magnus stepped up. 

A hand took his, and it did not belong to Mr. Herondale.

Magnus looked up at Mr. Lightwood, who had appeared beside him in time to help him into the carriage. He lightly squeezed Magnus’ hand once he was firmly seated, and then he let go. Magnus looked back at him as the carriage rolled away, but Mr. Lightwood was already walking back inside the Institute. Magnus folded his hands in his lap and remained silent for the journey home.

 

\--

 

The following breakfast, that is to say lunch, the entire household was hunched over their plates slightly hung over, except for Raphael, who was extremely hung over. Magnus hadn’t bothered to wipe last night’s makeup off, and he sat at the table in his oversized sleep shirt, his hair a tangled mess. He had been in a daze since the carriage ride home. Well, longer than that, he supposed. In a way, Magnus felt he’d been in an impenetrable daze of sorts since the first ball he’d attended at the Institute. He stared into his tea, which was a coincidental shade of golden brown and listened to the groggy conversation carrying on around him.

“So many officers there,” Clary was saying between bites of her soft boiled egg. “Of course, we did not see Ms. Belcourt. Poor Magnus was disgruntled by her absence.”

“I don’t think he was all that disgruntled,” said Simon. “He danced with Mr. Lightwood.”

“Did he?” Clary squeaked excitedly.

Magnus grunted noncommittally into his teacup. He could sense Raphael was about to bombard him with questions pertaining to Mr. Lightwood when the dining room door opened, revealing a finely put together Mr. Raj. 

As usual, Mr. Raj’s presence inspired a break in all conversation, and silence permeated the air as the cousin walked up to the table, standing directly behind Magnus. 

“Mr. Santiago, Mr. Garroway,” he began in an oddly aggressive tone. “I would like to speak with your eldest ward alone, if you please.”

That had Magnus’ attention, and he twisted in his chair, craning his neck to peer at the lurking man behind him. “Pardon?” he asked, none too pleased, but Raphael was already standing up, nearly falling over himself to do so. He flapped his arms at Clary and Simon and kicked at the legs of Luke’s chair. 

“You heard the man,” he said. “Everyone out.”

“Wait, no,” Magnus said, pushing back from the table and standing up, only to feel Mr. Raj’s hand at his shoulder. “Please remove your hand,” he hissed, shrugging away from the unwanted contact. Mr. Raj recoiled, but did not step away; he continued to crowd Magnus against the table while the rest of his family was herded unseemly from the room as quickly as possible. 

“Luke!” Magnus cried out, feeling dreadfully uncomfortable, but his guardian only paid him a sorry glance over his shoulder before letting Raphael scoot him through the door.

Raphael poked his head back into the room and said, “Take as long as you like,” before shutting the door behind him. Magnus heard what suspiciously sounded like a lock clicking into place and then he was alone with Mr. Raj. 

There was a long silence wherein Magnus just looked down at his lunch plate, aware that his cousin was trying to catch his eye, but trying his hardest to avoid it. But when Mr. Raj dropped down to his knee, Magnus could no longer pretend to ignore the horror unfolding before him. 

“Please get up,” Magnus pleaded to no avail. 

“Mr. Bane,” Mr. Raj began, “Magnus.” He grabbed at Magnus’ hand only to be smacked across the wrist by a disagreeable Magnus. “As you might have guessed, it has come time in my life to take a wife. Or husband.”

“Oh no,” muttered Magnus, trying to back away and hitting the table. A fork clattered to the floor.

“You are of marrying age and unattached, and I believe you have several desirable qualities that are not displeasing. It is my belief you would not be overly disappointing as my husband.”

Magnus felt sick. “Please stop.”

“Magnus Bane,” Mr. Raj continued, completely ignorant of Magnus’ discomfort. “Will you do me the honor of marrying me?”

If Mr. Raj would have no thought to Magnus’ feelings, he would waste no breath trying to spare Mr. Raj’s. “No, I won’t,” he answered harshly. He stepped around the still kneeling cousin. 

Still on his knees, Mr. Raj shuffled forward slightly, and Magnus ran a hand over his face in frustration. “I understand that it is customary to refuse a marriage proposal once before agreeing. So I shall ask again.”

“Don’t.”

“Will you marry me?”

“No.”

“Your coquettishness is most attractive. If you feel you must pretend at reluctance, I understand. I would be perfectly content to have your agreement this evening, when I shall ask you again.”

“I will not marry you.”

“My dear Magnus -”

“I will not!” Magnus shouted, running to the door. He tried the knob, but it was locked. On the other side, he could hear whispering and Clary’s unmistakable giggle. Behind him, he could hear Mr. Raj climbing to his feet and approaching. Anger ripe in his veins, Magnus abandoned the door and swept past Mr. Raj, heading directly for the window. 

“This is quite a dramatic display,” Mr. Raj commented, beginning to sound worried at last. “You could not act in this manner in front of my parishioners. Especially Lady Maryse.”

Magnus yanked the window open and hoisted himself up onto the sill. Without looking back, he leapt down, landing painfully in the rose bush beneath the window. He ignored the thorn stuck in his thigh and began to run. 

He could hear shouting. He knew Raphael was running after him on the stone path behind the house. But he did not stop. He could not stop. His feet clopped onward past the tree line, where he fitted himself against the bark of a familiar birch. He did not need to run his fingers along its surface to know it was the tree which Mr. Lightwood had struck with his arrows. Gasping, he placed his hands on his knees. 

He had only managed a handful of satisfying breaths when Raphael caught up to him.

“Dios!” his guardian yelled, coming around the tree to stand firmly in front of Magnus. “Mr. Raj said you jumped out of the window!”

“He kept proposing!” Magnus complained breathlessly. “And you had locked me in. What was I to do?”

Raphael raised his arms in exasperation. “You were to behave like an adult and accept his proposal, Magnus!”

Magnus looked up at his guardian from beneath his hair, which was now lying lank against his forehead. “But he’s awful. I could never marry him.”

“I don’t see any other offers,” Raphael argued. “Your time for picking and choosing is coming to an end. Soon, quite soon, you will be too old and no one will want to marry you at all. Is that what you want?”

Magnus made himself stand straight, though his heart was aching from his guardian’s cruel words. It hurt all the more that the words were true. “I would rather die an old maid than be married to someone I don’t love.”

“And yet you love no one and no one loves you,” said Raphael.

“Mr. Santiago!”

Magnus and Raphael both looked at once to find Luke standing in the clearing. 

“Mr. Garroway,” Raphael sighed with relief. “Tell your ward that he is to marry Mr. Raj or I shall never speak to him again.”

Luke locked eyes with Magnus, who was ashamed to see a well of tears blurring his vision. “You heard him, Magnus,” said Luke. “Mr. Santiago will never speak to you again if you do not marry Mr. Raj.” He stepped forward and placed a hand on Magnus’ shoulder. “And I will never speak to you again if you do.”

“Mr. Garroway!” cried Raphael. 

Luke patted Magnus’ shoulder and gave him a wink before turning for his partner. He took Raphael’s hand and began leading him back to the house. “Come with me, dear.”

Magnus could hear them speaking in hushed tones as their figures retreated, and once they were out of sight, he slid down the tree until he was seated beneath its shadow. He wished desperately that he’d grabbed a book before escaping through the window, for it would surely be a long while until he had the gumption to walk back to the house. 

 

\--

 

When he did return, it was with a heavy heart and tired feet. He did not stop to speak with Raphael and Clary, who were sitting in the parlor with their needlework. Instead, Magnus went straight to his room. He wanted nothing more than to fall into his bed and dream away to another world, but his plan was foiled when he opened the door and found Simon sitting on his bed. His face was streaming with tears and he clutched a piece of paper in his hand.

“Simon,” said Magnus, shutting the door gently behind him and approaching his brother slowly. “What’s wrong?”

Simon sniffled, but he did not turn away from Magnus. He always told Magnus how he felt. “It’s from Mr. Herondale.” Sniff. “He has left the Institute and is returning to Idris.”

Magnus sat down beside Simon, confused. “He’s left?” Absurdly, Magnus’ first thought was that Mr. Lightwood would be gone as well, and the idea of it left a strange sensation behind, a pang in his chest and a small lump in his throat. Magnus chalked it up to exhaustion combined with a tumult of emotions. What a day it had been. 

“He’s left with no word of when he might return,” Simon said. He looked up at Magnus with wet eyes. “I don’t know why I’m so upset. I suppose I thought…”

“We all thought, Simon,” said Magnus. “Mr. Herondale has given every clue of being in love with you.”

“I thought he might love me,” admitted Simon. “But then why did he not propose before he left town?”

Magnus had to admit to himself that it didn’t make much sense. Mr. Herondale had seemed on the precipice of proposing since the moment he laid eyes on Simon. “There must be an explanation,” Magnus said. “Just because he has left town temporarily does not mean he has forgotten you.”

Sniff sniff. “Hasn’t it?”

“Of course not. Mr. Herondale could never forget you. Especially when he finds out that you are also spending time in Idris. It is fate!”

Simon squinted at him, clearly perplexed. “But I’m not spending time in Idris, Mags.”

“You will be as soon as you write to our uncles and ask to spend a few weeks with them,” replied Magnus with a shrug. “Hodge and Valentine are always begging us to visit. So go visit, Simon. Go to Idris and look fabulous and have a wonderful time. As soon as Mr. Herondale hears word that you are nearby, he’ll flock to your side. I know it.”

Already, Simon’s color seemed healthier and fresh tears had stopped flowing from his eyes. Magnus smiled warmly and brought him close for a hug. It appeared as though Simon really loved Mr. Herondale. Magnus rubbed his brother’s back soothingly and wondered what it must feel like to love someone so much.


	5. Chapter 5

Days inched tediously by with Simon gone from the house, and Magnus found his time wrung out, long and slow and sad. Ten moons had risen since Simon left, waving at Magnus from the back of the carriage. Ten moons Magnus had witnessed from his bedroom window, impossibly tired but unable to sleep. There was a restlessness stirring his blood, and no books or sequin stitching seemed capable of curing it. 

Besides the morose passing of his nights, Magnus spent most of his days, when not rushing from chore to chore and actively avoiding Raphael’s accusatory looks, walking. He walked down the stone path behind his house, through the trees, always stopping at the birch with its marred trunk. His fingers would float over the arrow’s notches, and he would lean his forehead against the smooth white bark. He would sit beneath the tree with a book in his hand and try to suss out the wrongness that seemed to permeate the air around him. In truth, Magnus had not felt right, not felt like himself, since the officer’s ball, and Simon’s absence only added to the feeling. It was almost as if he were homesick, which made no sense, but he knew not how else to describe the dull and steady ache in his chest.

When two weeks had crawled by, Magnus was seated beneath the birch with his eyes closed. As usual, he had not slept heartily the night previous, and the cool breeze was a lolling force, bidding him to rest. His hair, un-spiked and wild, fluttered in an especially strong pickup of wind, and Magnus pushed the inky strands from his face and opened his eyes, if only to narrow them unhappily at the world. The world did not narrow back its eyes at Magnus, but Ragnor Fell did, who stood before him in the clearing with a smug smile.

“You look terrible,” said Ragnor. He walked forward, looked for a moment as if he might lower himself to the ground with Magnus, but then thought better of it. He opted instead to stand with his hands on his hips. His shiny-shoed toes tapped the leaf strewn ground. 

“I loathe when people say that, like it’s not horribly offensive,” Magnus returned, pulling his knees up to his chest. 

“The only thing offensive I see is your hair, darling,” replied his friend. He waved his hand vaguely towards Magnus’ head. “My glittery friend, where has your sparkle gone?”

“Simon is in Idris,” Magnus offered weakly, feeling rather rundown. Ragnor’s insults did little to assuage his moroseness. “I suppose that may be why I have been…less inclined to sparkle as of late.”

Ragnor’s laugh was abrupt, and it surprised Magnus. “Yes. You must be depressed because Simon is gone. There could be no other reason.”

“None that I can think of,” Magnus sighed. “Unless you believe I am secretly in love with Mr. Raj, and desperately regret my decision to turn down his proposal.”

“You don’t regret that decision,” said Ragnor. “And I do not regret mine.” 

“Oh? And what decision have you made lately, Ragnor?” Magnus asked. “Have you finally landed on your signature scent?”

Ragnor smiled, though Magnus doubted its sincerity. “Nothing so significant. No, my decision is to embark upon a path you yourself would find disdainful. The short of it is that Mr. Raj has proposed to me, and I have said yes.”

Magnus got to his feet quicker than he’d guessed his tired limbs could move and fixed his friend with his most shocked set of expressions. 

“Oh, don’t act so surprised,” Ragnor said before Magnus could utter a single word. “We are not all as self-satisfied as you, Magnus Bane. I have grown tired of being alone. Mr. Raj may not be ideal, may not be a catch, but he has money and he took an interest, and so I agreed. We marry next week, with or without your approval.” Ragnor cast his eyes down in a rare flash of vulnerability. “But I would prefer the agreeableness of my best friend, even though he looks a frightful mess today and I’m a bit embarrassed to even be seen with him.”

Magnus had never seen such a twist coming. Had he been so far gone, wrapped in his own trappings, he had failed to notice his friend’s predicaments of the heart, or lack thereof? Ragnor Fell and his cousin? Never could he have dreamt of a stranger pairing. But he supposed, in a weird way, it would be nice to have Ragnor in the family. Either way, it was not Magnus’ business to argue how unappealing he found Mr. Raj, for it was not Magnus to whom Mr. Raj should appeal. 

He smiled, and it was only slightly forced. “I am happy for you, of course, Cabbage.”

Ragnor grasped Magnus’ shoulder and said, “You do understand you cannot attend the ceremony unless you have done something with your hair.”

 

\--

 

The wedding ceremony took place the following Sunday, though Magnus could not believe his eyes as it unfolded before him. Ragnor had taken Mr. Raj’s hand and they had been wed. 

“I hope you realize your name is Ragnor Raj now,” Magnus had whispered in his friend’s ear during the festivities.

“I rather like it,” Ragnor Raj had whispered back with a slyly. “It has flair.” His face grew suddenly serious as he placed his hand on Magnus’ cheek. “I only wish your flair was not so depleted. “

Magnus took his friend’s hand, lowering it from his face and trying to return a smile. “I’m fine.”

“I don’t believe you,” said Ragnor. “It’s no good for your complexion, moping about with no one to fuss over but Clary. Come and stay with me soon. We can make fun of Mr. Raj’s parishioners, for they must be as stale and strange as he.” Magnus began to shake his head, but Ragnor’s eyes turned to challenging slits. “Promise me you will visit.”

Reluctantly, Magnus promised, and later that day the plans were set in stone. Magnus would travel to his cousin’s parish in two weeks time. The idea did not delight him overly much, but he supposed he could pretend to be happy there as easily as he could pretend at home. And it would be nice to spend time with Ragnor. Of course, when Magnus agreed to the visit, he had no idea who else would be visiting the same parish at the same time. Whether or not Ragnor Raj knew, none will ever know.

 

\--

 

The two weeks passed slowly, and by the time Magnus was packing his case into the back of the carriage, he was glad for the upcoming trip. Perhaps a change in scenery was all he needed to instill an inward change. The fresh country air could heal his flummoxed nerves and soothe his ache of mysterious origins. And sure enough, only a mile down the road from his house, outside the realm of Raphael’s harsh glare, Magnus felt as though he could breathe a bit easier already. Yes, he decided, fiddling with the rings on his fingers, it was going to be a most advantageous trip indeed.

After half a day’s ride, the carriage pulled up to a lovely little cottage house, sweet and white in a field of lush green grass. Before Magnus’ feet could even touch the ground, Ragnor was upon him, all smiles and hugs and happy-hearted insults. Magnus hugged his dear friend in earnest and noticed his cousin’s creeping approach. When Ragnor and Magnus separated, Mr. Raj bowed in greeting. He was dressed pristinely and Magnus wondered whether he had a service to attend. As it happened, a quite different fate was intended for the evening.

“Dear cousin,” Mr. Raj began. “My husband and I are delighted you could visit.”

“And what a beautiful house to visit, cousin,” replied Magnus, his arm linked through with Ragnor’s. 

Mr. Raj smiled proudly at their little house. “Lady Maryse is seeing over its accoutrements. She has an exquisite eye.”

Magnus paid Ragnor a befuddled glance, to which Ragnor responded with a roll of his eyes. As usual, Mr. Raj was oblivious to either reaction and continued along his line of thought unbothered.

“Lady Maryse, you see, is also my neighbor. There is her house, across the way. Do you see?”

Magnus nodded, for it was impossible to miss the estate’s grand display, with its high walls and a large gothic fountain at the center of its flowered courtyard. “It’s very nice,” Magnus said, though it held no candle to the grandeur of the Institute.

“The Lady Maryse attends my services every Sunday, and we have dined on several occasions, have we not, my dear?” asked Mr. Raj of a bored looking Ragnor. 

“Dining with Lady Maryse always proves to be an interesting time,” was Ragnor’s humored answer. 

“And this time shall be no different!” Mr. Raj rubbed his hands together, looking Magnus up and down. “Did you bring something nice to wear, cousin?” he asked. “No bother. Lady Maryse is an accepting woman who understands the strife of those below her station. Just change into the best clothes you packed and that will have to do.”

Magnus looked down at his traveling clothes, which were a bit dusty. “I take it we’re to dine with Lady Maryse?”

“Oh yes,” said Mr. Raj, leading the way to the house. “She has a keen interest in meeting you.”

Magnus cocked an eyebrow at Ragnor, but his friend’s face was giving nothing away but its usual smugness. 

“Perhaps, if I could make a singular suggestion,” piped Mr. Raj as he led Magnus to the guest quarters. “Not so much glitter this time.” He shut Magnus into the room, and Magnus could hear his muffled exclamation through the door. “Dress quickly! Lady Maryse is a saintly woman but she hates to be kept waiting!”

 

\--

 

Magnus followed half of Mr. Raj’s instructions. He dressed in the best clothes he had packed for the occasion. However, said clothes happened to be accented with plentiful sparkly details, and he took special care to apply an excess of glittery charcoal to his eyes. When Magnus was finished primping, he would not be surprised if a cloud of glitter followed him for the rest of the day. Mr. Raj would be unhappy, but Magnus, as he stared at his reflection in the full length mirror, felt happy for the first time in a month, maybe more. He wore crimson lambskin trousers and a matching waistcoat, with a sleek, shimmering white top beneath. The tips of his hair were expertly spiked and dipped with red, glittery dye. An assortment of necklaces clinked and clanked around his neck, and every step he took echoed with the clip-clop of his two inch heels. He slipped on his dinner coat, white and sparkling as fresh snow in the moonlight, and spritzed himself with perfume. When he finally opened the door and revealed his dining attire, the hall was filled with the scent of sandalwood and Mr. Raj’s sigh of exasperation. 

Ragnor, on the other hand, looked entirely pleased, and as they did not wish to keep Lady Maryse waiting, the party of three made haste from one house to the other. 

A stuffy housekeeper answered the front door the instant Mr. Raj knocked upon it, ushering them inside with a grim determination that had Magnus squaring his shoulders for impact. And a good thing too, because as soon as they were led to the drawing room, Lady Maryse set her cold gaze on Magnus, assaulting him with the same venom one would deliver to one’s greatest enemy. 

She sat on a velvet couch and did not bother to get up upon the arrival of her guests. Her head was held high and her black hair was pulled so tightly from her face that the skin tugged at her temples and gave her an unnaturally strained appearance. Still, she was not an unattractive woman. Despite the grimace, Magnus could detect an unfiltered beauty, and there was an attractive darkness to her features that called to mind another face entirely. 

“Lady Maryse Lightwood,” Mr. Raj said, walking to the woman’s side and bowing deeply. Ragnor bowed as well. 

But Magnus could not bow, or move at all, because he was suddenly frozen in place, staring at the man he had not seen when he had first entered the drawing room, the tall, elegant man who stood beside the picture windows and was staring back at Magnus with equal surprise. 

“Mr. Raj, stop bowing. I’m not the queen,” spat Lady Maryse. “Introduce me to your cousin.”

“Of course,” Mr. Raj stuttered, reaching back and tugging brusquely at Magnus’ sleeve to get him moving. 

Magnus took a few steps forward, but still found he could not bow his head nor look away from the man by the window. 

“This is Magnus Bane?” asked Lady Maryse reproachfully. “Hmmm. He will get glitter all over everything.”

“A touch of glitter never hurt anyone, mother,” said the man, finally walking forward and placing a hand on Lady Maryse’s poofy shoulder. He maintained eye contact with Magnus, nodding his head politely. “An unexpected pleasure, Mr. Bane.” His lips curled at the edges to form a small smile. 

“Mr. Lightwood,” Magnus replied, and he was embarrassed to find his voice was breathless, pathetic. The sound of it, at least, made him remember himself and his manners, and Magnus averted his eyes from the inherently distracting Mr. Lightwood, bowing politely to the woman who was apparently his mother. “Lady Maryse Lightwood,” he said with a stronger tone, “I have heard much about you.”

“No doubt,” said Lady Maryse. 

“I have been telling my cousin how generous my Lady is,” Mr. Raj said, and Magnus had to stifle his laughter at the ferocity with which the generous Lady Maryse rolled her eyes. 

“Yes, yes, Mr. Raj, I’m sure.” She looked at Magnus with obvious dislike. “Well, Mr. Bane, you are certainly not what I had pictured, but I suppose few people ever live up to the praise others bestow upon them.”

“That is certainly true,” Magnus agreed with his most winning smile. “Though I can’t imagine you’ve heard much praise of me from my cousin. We met for the first time only recently.”

“Not your cousin, no,” said Lady Maryse, and Mr. Lightwood cleared his throat behind her.

“Mother, we should adjourn to the dining room,” he said. “I’m sure Mr. Bane is weary from his day of travelling and would like to sit and take refreshment.”

Lady Maryse looked up at her son, and Magnus decided they truly did resemble one another. But where Lady Maryse’s face was hardened and mean, Mr. Lightwood’s, in comparison, looked sweeter than ever, especially after such a long while away from it. And he was turning that sweet face upon Magnus now, his thick eyebrows raised questioningly, and his lips parted and pink. Not a trace of the disagreeableness Magnus had grown to associate with Mr. Lightwood was currently painted upon his expression, just pretty, masculine features and an unmistakable air of kindness. The whole situation had Magnus feeling more than slightly off-kilter. Would the infuriating man’s presence ever discontinue its ill effect on Magnus’ pulse? It seemed Magnus would have the entire evening to find out.

The dining room was candlelit and lovely, and Magnus, at Lady Maryse’s behest, was seated beside Mr. Lightwood. At first, Magnus thought such an arrangement a providential one, for he would not be forced to look at Mr. Lightwood throughout the meal. But his approval of the arrangement rapidly dwindled as he realized that sitting so close to Mr. Lightwood, though not forced to stare at his face, created its own unique list of difficulties. For example, Magnus became aware rather quickly that Mr. Lightwood let off a great deal of body heat. If Magnus concentrated, he could nearly feel the wave of warmth radiating from the man’s thigh, which was only a foot away - if that! - from Magnus’ thigh. He also took note that Mr. Lightwood often made soft, rumbling noises instead of responding verbally to conversation, and Magnus could feel the vibration of sound ruminating low in his stomach, and on one occasion, after Mr. Lightwood had made an especially deep throated rumble, Magnus experienced a maddening twinge in his groin. 

Olfactory overload was another result of sitting beside Mr. Lightwood instead of across from him. Magnus could hardly concentrate on the taste of his food with that scent surrounding him. Mr. Lightwood smelled clean, like soap, but musky, like he’d spent a deal of the day walking through the woods, which he probably had. It was as intoxicating as Magnus’ wine, which he drank steadily as dinner commenced. But the worst thing about sitting beside Mr. Lightwood was the fact that he was so…close. It was the notion that, if Magnus dared, he could reach out his hand beneath the table and brush his fingertips across Mr. Lightwood’s knee. The thought made him fidget in his chair. Was he so touch-starved that he was entertaining the idea of inappropriately touching a detestable man’s leg beneath a table? What a hideous thought, and yet Magnus could not rid it from his mind. He was thankful when Maryse began speaking to him, though that thankfulness only lasted as long as it took for him to interpret her words. Needless to say, it became painfully obvious where Mr. Lightwood had learned his abysmal manners as a host.

“You are unmarried, Mr. Bane?” she asked briskly.

“Quite,” answered Magnus.

“How old are you? I cannot tell by looking, with all that detritus on your face.”

Magnus laughed at her brazenness. At least she was honest. “Lady Maryse, not even my dearest friends know how old I am. I hardly think it would be fair to tell you when poor Ragnor has been trying to decode my age for years.” He heard Ragnor snickering into his wine glass and flashed him a smile.

“You are clearly of marrying age,” Lady Maryse said, taking a dainty sip of her soup.

A low rumble sounded beside Magnus, and his eyes darted down to discover Mr. Lightwood’s hands clasped firmly together in his lap. “Your ladyship is spectacularly observant,” said Magnus. 

“And yet you are unmarried,” continued Lady Maryse. 

“It would appear so.”

Lady Maryse hummed thoughtfully to herself, and then asked, “Pray, what are your accomplishments, Mr. Bane?”

Magnus bristled at the question, and was readying a fiery response when, miraculously, Mr. Lightwood intervened with his own answer. 

“Mr. Bane is quite accomplished, mother,” he said. “Not only is he an expert tailor and dancer, but an avid reader, as well. Also…he is fond of walking.”

Magnus could not help it; he turned his head to look at Mr. Lightwood, whose head was already turned to look at him. His cheeks were flushed but he was wearing that small smile and Magnus was grateful he was seating; he was positive he would have fallen down otherwise. 

“Walking?” Lady Maryse asked, clearly unimpressed. “Perhaps Mr. Bane can walk over to the piano forte after dinner and play us a melody. You do play, do you not, Mr. Bane? Since you’re so accomplished.”

“Not well, your ladyship,” replied Magnus, reluctantly turning away from Mr. Lightwood’s smile to face his mother’s haughty frown. 

“I will be the judge of that, I think,” Lady Maryse snapped, and as soon as their supper was finished, she all but pushed Magnus onto the piano bench before sitting herself down in the plush cushions of her sofa. She watched Magnus like a hawk, though Ragnor and Mr. Raj were trying to chat her up with parish gossip. 

Mr. Lightwood did not sit with the others. He strolled directly past the arrangement of sofa and chairs and stopped only when he had reached the piano. Magnus looked up at him from the bench and watched him lean an elbow upon the smooth surface of the instrument. 

“Come to enjoy my mortification up close, Mr. Lightwood?” Magnus asked as he nervously set his fingers on the ivory keys. “I did not lie when I said I was no good. I know it’s hard to believe as I must come off as being accomplished in every skill.”

And after Magnus’ words, the most miraculous thing happened. Mr. Lightwood laughed. 

“You do give that impression,” he said softly. 

Magnus was in the middle of a surprised gawk when Lady Maryse’s impatience flared up from the other side of the room: “Please, Mr. Bane, I desire entertainment.” He found himself looking pleadingly at Mr. Lightwood as he sorted through his head for a melody simple enough to bluster his way through. As if reading his mind, Mr. Lightwood leaned down and whispered, “I dare you to play Chopsticks.” It made Magnus laugh, and his laughter eased some of the tension out of his fingers. He reminded himself that he did not care what Maryse Lightwood thought of him, nor did he care what her son thought of him. She wanted him to play for her? She could suffer through whatever he deemed fit to play. He cracked his knuckles and began. 

Whether because he was dreadfully out of practice or distracted by Mr. Lightwood’s full attention, Magnus could not quite say, but he fumbled terribly with every other note. It was funny, in a way, when Magnus looked up and smiled at Lady Maryse cringing visibly with every unfortunate note. But despite the tortured sounds Magnus pulled from the instrument, Mr. Lightwood seemed solid in his position, only shifting his head slightly, like he wished to hear Magnus’ playing at the purest angle. 

After the first few bars of music, Ragnor joined them as well, and Magnus did not have to wait for his friend to tell him how his playing sounded.

“Atrocious, dear. The worst I’ve heard. I can’t even tell what song you’re trying to play.”

“I can’t either,” Magnus sighed. His fingers felt thick and clumsy, but his heart felt absurdly light. He smiled up at Ragnor, and if his eyes ended up locked with Mr. Lightwood’s longer than was excusable, well…no, that wouldn’t do. Magnus forced himself to stop gazing into Mr. Lightwood’s eyes. After all, he disliked the man immensely. A few polite words spoken in front of his mother would do nothing to heal his previous burns to Magnus’ ego. “You remember Mr. Lightwood, don’t you, Ragnor?” Magnus asked with his face down, focusing on the keys, though the new focus did nothing to assist his playing. “He was the gentleman at the ball who refused to dance, though many were wanting for a partner.” Magnus stole a glance at Mr. Lightwood, whose cheeks were now reddening. “I suppose your options were unsuitable, Mr. Lightwood. I understand we country folk can be...a bit much.” Magnus added an extra bite to those last words, remembering the sting he’d felt when first hearing them from Mr. Lightwood.

“Oh my,” Ragnor said. “It looks as though my husband needs me. Do excuse me.”

Magnus glared at Ragnor as he slinked away, but not before catching the wink cast in his direction.

“It is a fault of mine,” Mr. Lightwood began at a hushed volume that sounded startlingly intimate, “that I do not converse easily with people I do not know.”

“Dancing is a fine way to get to know a person, Mr. Lightwood,” said Magnus coolly. He finished the final bars of the song and pushed away from the piano forte with a sigh of relief. But he did not attempt to stand and rejoin the others. As long as Mr. Lightwood was standing there, leaning against the piano, Magnus had no interest in going anywhere. How odd.

“Mr. Herondale informed me of this,” said Mr. Lightwood. “And if you recall, I remedied my poor behavior at the officer’s ball.” He was looking right at Magnus, his golden eyes shining. 

Magnus blinked. “I do recall.”

“Good,” was Mr. Lightwood’s simple reply, and then there was that wide grin again, accompanied by a breath of laughter that had Magnus’ insides throbbing. 

“Alec, come here!” Lady Maryse shouted suddenly from her perch on the sofa. “I dislike separate conversations within a single dinner party.”

Mr. Lightwood’s smile thinned at the sound of his mother’s voice, but returned to full volume when he extended an elbow for Magnus. Temporarily blinded by the brilliant smile and shocked by the pleasant words coming out of Mr. Lightwood’s mouth, Magnus accepted the elbow and Mr. Lightwood escorted him across the room. The feel of Mr. Lightwood’s arm beneath Magnus’ fingertips burned, and Magnus hoped the sudden rush of warmth to his cheeks would be associated with the glass of wine from which he drank deeply.

 

\--

 

The following morning, the evening at Lady Maryse’s felt like a blur, but Magnus could not stop replaying fragments of it in his head as he readied himself for Mr. Raj’s Sunday service. He studied the remembered images as though the night had happened to someone else. Had it really been Magnus whom Mr. Lightwood had smiled at so earnestly? Had it been Magnus who held onto Mr. Lightwood’s arm? Had it been of Magnus’ accomplishments that Mr. Lightwood boasted to his mother? It did not feel real. 

Magnus buttoned his shirt, watching his reflection in the mirror. The cloth was a comely eggplant that made his skin glow. His hair was softer than usual; he’d left it un-spiked because of the rain, but still finely coiffed. Rain pelted against his window now, making the room feel so cozy Magnus had half a mind to crawl back into bed and dream. He’d had the strangest dreams last night: flashes of gold and a warm feeling in his stomach. 

Thunder rattled the window and Magnus sighed, slipping on his coat. He would attend the service. He would not dwell on senseless dreams. He would not forget himself. He met Ragnor and Mr. Raj in the kitchen and after a quick breakfast of bread and cheese, they rushed from the house and to the covered carriage, which carried them swiftly to the church. 

 

\--

 

The thunderstorm grew louder, competing with Mr. Raj’s sermon. Personally, Magnus preferred the sound of the storm to the prattling on about hellfire, but if he was being honest, the bulk of his attention was not on one or the other, but something else altogether. Someone else, rather. Mr. Lightwood was sitting in the pews opposite Magnus, allowing for an idyllic angle from which to discreetly observe. What Magnus observed distracted him from raindrops and thunder and the drone of Mr. Raj’s voice. Mr. Lightwood’s hair looked a bit damp from the rain, and it curled at the ends from the humidity, giving him a boyish appearance. His eyes seemed restless, often looking up to the rafters with a bored expression that had Magnus grinning in his pew. His entertainment must have been poorly hidden, because the man sitting beside Magnus leaned into him, whispering behind his bible.

“Do you know Mr. Lightwood?” the man asked, and Magnus turned his head to him, feeling guilty as if he’d just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“Hardly at all,” Magnus muttered, but the stranger must have been as bored as everyone else in the church, for he kept speaking to Magnus as if they were old friends.

“He’s a fine man. Very fine.”

Eyes focused on Mr. Lightwood, Magnus asked, “Is he?”

“Oh yes,” the man was quick to say. “A good son and a good friend. Rumor has it he recently saved his best friend from making a horrible mistake.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I don’t know the details, but apparently this friend was about to make the grave mistake of proposing to an unworthy man.”

Magnus’ heart clenched in his chest. “Unworthy?”

“Apparently the object of the friend’s ardor was a simple boy from the country. You know the type. Probably after a fortune. How good of Mr. Lightwood to save his friend from such a mistake.”

Simon. 

Magnus thought of Simon, somewhere in Idris, waiting for Mr. Herondale to come and proclaim his love. Magnus had promised that was what would happen. But it would not. It would not, because of Mr. Lightwood. 

A surge of nausea jolted through Magnus, and he clasped his hands roughly on the pew before him. Thunder roared outside, but the air inside was too hot, too stifling. Magnus murmured an apology to the man still whispering atrocities in his ear and stood up on shaky legs. He maneuvered past the parishioners in his aisle, stumbling and short of breath. Sweat beaded at his forehead and he wiped it away as he walked quickly toward the exit. He could still faintly hear Mr. Raj behind him, but the sound of his voice disappeared completely when he threw open the church doors and threw himself out into the rain. 

It was pouring. In seconds, Magnus was drenched, but he didn’t care. He needed to get away from the church, away from Mr. Lightwood, so he could breathe. He spotted a gazebo in the distance, surrounded by willow trees whipping in the wind. There, Magnus decided, and he set off at a clipping pace, his feet slipping in the mud as he ran. When he reached the shelter, his hair was plastered to his face and his eye-makeup was smeared, whether from rain or tears Magnus was unsure. He only knew he was distressed, more distressed than he had ever been. He clutched at his chest and prayed his heart would stop its frenzied gallop. 

“Mr. Bane!”

Magnus turned and did not believe what he saw: Mr. Lightwood soaked to the bone, breathing heavily and taking up space in Magnus’ gazebo with a wide-eyed expression. He had run out into the rain after Magnus, then. But why? Still struggling to breathe, from exertion and panic, Magnus stepped away from Mr. Lightwood, one step backward, to which Mr. Lightwood responded with one step forward. 

“Mr. Bane,” he said again, softer this time. Rain dripped from the tip of his eyelashes. “Magnus.”

Magnus kept his hand held to his chest and Mr. Lightwood took another step forward.

“I have been in agony since the moment I saw you, and I can’t stand it any longer.” Mr. Lightwood spoke urgently but smoothly, as if he’d formed the words long ago and they were finally being set free. “You’re the only reason I came to visit my mother. You must know. I only wished to see you again. I had to see you.” Lightning struck nearby, causing a deafening crack to echo through the air between them, but Mr. Lightwood went on as if he’d not heard. “I’ve – I’ve struggled with what my family might think, what my obligations demand, the inferiority of your birth and my rank, but I’ve decided I don’t care about those things. I’m willing to put them aside and ask you to -,” he took a deep breath, “- end my agony.”

“I don’t understand,” Magnus whispered. And he didn’t. He understood nothing in a world where Mr. Lightwood would stand before him and say those things.

“I love you.” Mr. Lightwood said it quickly, taking yet another step toward Magnus. A sigh escaped him and his shoulders slumped slightly. “I love you,” he said again. “I’ve never felt…I never thought I would feel…”

Magnus stared up at him. He was standing so close that Magnus could see the hint of green in his eyes. 

“Please marry me.”

Magnus’ world tilted, and he leaned against the gazebo’s railing for support. With concern in his eyes, Mr. Lightwood moved even closer, looking down at Magnus with furrowed brows. Trying not to dissociate from the scene, Magnus took a deep breath. It did not help. Mr. Lightwood had just proposed to him, had just confessed his ardent love. Magnus could experience a lifetime of deep breaths and never recover. 

His pause was long and thoughtful, and when Magnus finally found his words, he spoke slowly and with great care. Though he did not know what he would say until he said it. “I’m sorry knowing me has caused you pain.” His voice was shaking, but it couldn’t be helped. “I didn’t realize. I am -” he hesitated, but searching for words was near impossible, so muddled was his mind. Magnus let the sentence drop and they stared at one another as another boom of thunder rumbled over their heads. 

“Is that…,” Mr. Lightwood began with a worried frown. “I mean to say, you have not answered. My question.”

Had he not? Magnus swallowed hard, and then, with his heart in his throat, he answered. “No.”

Mr. Lightwood looked confused. “No? You refuse to answer?”

“No. No is my answer,” Magnus clarified, and the shocked look on Mr. Lightwood’s face sparked Magnus’ anger. Of course Mr. Lightwood would be surprised at a rejection. Of course he would think anyone would fall to their knees with joy at the prospect of marrying him. “Oh, don’t look so hurt,” Magnus said, feeling the vindictiveness running thick in his veins. “You could not truly wish to marry one of my piteous station. It was only the glitter that caught your eye, but it washes away eventually, I promise you.”

Mr. Lightwood looked as though Magnus had slapped him. “May I ask how I’ve come to make you hate me?”

“Other than insulting me with one hand while you confess your love with the other?” was Magnus’ seething response. There was a tempest swirling inside him now, more formidable than the thunderstorm dumping gallons of rain around them. Weeks of dislike for Mr. Lightwood came to a crescendo with a clap of thunder. “How could you possibly think I would marry you after what you did?”

Mr. Lightwood shook his head and drops of rain flew from the ends of his damp hair. “What did I do?”

“Do you think my character so shallow that I would be tempted to marry a man who has crushed my brother’s heart?” When Mr. Lightwood did not move to respond, Magnus went on, his voice rising with his anger. “You told Mr. Herondale not to marry Simon. I have no eye for it, but even I could see that they were in love. And you separated them. Do you deny it, Mr. Lightwood?”

“No. I did separate them,” Mr. Lightwood said matter-of-factly. His confusion was clearly beginning to breakdown into irritation. 

“Why?” asked Magnus. His hands fisted the rails behind him. He felt so angry, so hurt on behalf of Simon that he could cry.

“Because I did not believe Simon was serious about Jace. I watched them closely. Your brother did nothing but tell jokes and evade sincerity. The shallowness I perceived in his personality combined with your guardian’s atrocious behavior led me to believe a marriage would not be beneficial.”

Magnus released the rails to throw his hands in the air with frustration. His foot seemed to stomp the ground of its own volition. “Simon tells jokes! He tells horrible jokes, but that’s the way he is. He was in love with Mr. Herondale, and that love was sincere. How dare you intervene?”

“I did what I thought was best for my friend.”

Another painful stretch of silence passed between them. And then another thought floated to the forefront of Magnus’ mind. “What about Ms. Belcourt?”

Mr. Lightwood snarled with disgust and his eyes became stormy. “What about Ms. Belcourt?” he asked, his voice like a knife as he stepped even closer. He was near enough to touch, Magnus realized with a stab of mania. Near enough to feel his breath on his cheek. 

“She told me what you did after your father died. How you withheld her inheritance and disobeyed your father’s last wishes because you were jealous.”

“Poor Ms. Belcourt,” Mr. Lightwood sneered.

“You ruined her chances at fortune and now you mock her. And you are honestly shocked by my refusal?”

Mr. Lightwood looked incensed. “It is clear to me now, how you feel about me. Thank you for being so forthcoming, Mr. Bane. I should have guessed that you would strike at me from every angle, as you have endeavored to do since we first met.”

“As I was right to do!” said Magnus, lifting his chin and glaring at the horrible man before him. “The moment I laid eyes on you I knew what kind of man you were. Arrogant and rude and the last man in the world I would ever want to marry.”

Mr. Lightwood’s lips parted on a subtle intake of breath, but he did not speak. Magnus felt the odd sensation of being tugged slightly forward, not by Mr. Lightwood, whose hands were fists at his sides, but by the gravity within the scant space between them. Mr. Lightwood’s head tilted and he leaned down an inch. They breathed together for a moment, unmoving and close. And then Mr. Lightwood took several steps back at once. The anger vanished from his face, leaving nothing behind.

“I’m sorry I wasted your time,” he said, and without another word, he walked back into the rain.

Magnus turned to face the other direction and finally let the well of tears fall free from his eyes. His mind was racing. His pulse was rapid. Thunder made the gazebo shudder, but Magnus could feel nothing.


	6. Chapter 6

Magnus didn’t remember the journey home. When Mr. Raj had ended his sermon and the doors of the church had released its slew of parishioners, Ragnor had found him standing beneath the gazebo with tears in his eyes. Without snark or question, Ragnor had taken his friend’s hand and led him to the carriage. 

Now he stood in the guest room of their little house. The thunderstorm had finally passed and the rain had tapered to a light drizzle. Magnus’ wet clothes dripped on the floor and he stared at his reflection in the mirror, but he hardly saw himself. Ragnor brought him a tray of tea and biscuits and, without asking permission, stripped Magnus of his soaked garments and slipped him into his oversized night shirt. He scruffed a towel over Magnus’ head to dry his hair. Then he kissed his cheek and left him alone. 

Magnus heard low murmurs coming from the hall, followed by the creak of the front door swinging open. Footsteps pounded, and weak protests, and then Magnus’ door opened. 

He could see him in the mirror, but he did not turn around. He just watched as Mr. Lightwood stepped quietly into the room. His clothes were still damp and his hair was on its way to drying wild on his head, an unruly flop of it hanging over his downcast eyes. Without speaking, or making any noise at all, Mr. Lightwood set a small envelope on Magnus’ desk. He looked at him for a moment more, and then turned, leaving the room and shutting the door behind him.

When he was gone, Magnus crossed to the window and watched him mount his horse. Only when the mare had disappeared down the lane did he approach the envelope. He touched it with careful fingers, as if it might disintegrate in his hands. Mr. Lightwood’s handwriting had unexpected flourish, with dips and curls. Magnus should have known that this extension of the man would be as beautiful as the man himself. On the front of the envelope was Magnus’ name, scrawled with fantastical loops. He touched his inked name and remembered the sound of it on Mr. Lightwood’s tongue. ‘Magnus,’ he had said. 

Magnus sat on the bed, opened the envelope and pulled out is contents. The letter read as follows:

‘You can relax knowing this letter is not another plea for your hand, Mr. Bane. I understand your feelings and know that I disgusted you with my proposal. It is only my wish to settle the charges made against me, though perhaps if I were of better character, I would not need to cite such evidence to win your favor. Indulge me, please, and let me explain myself properly.

‘In regards to my interference with Mr. Herondale and Mr. Lewis, it was my genuine belief that Mr. Herondale was in love with your brother. I have known him a long time and have seen him play the lovesick fool again and again, but never to such a degree until he met Mr. Lewis at the ball. I found his hasty development of strong feelings so startling that I was immediately put on edge. Watching your brother interact with Mr. Herondale, whom I consider a brother of my own, I thought I detected an imbalance of feeling. As much as I knew Mr. Herondale to be in love, I knew Mr. Lewis to be consistently laughing and making light. This judgment, in addition to the news about town that your guardian was attempting to marry off each of his wards, caused a great reluctance in my heart to approve the joining. Understand, Mr. Bane, my friends are few. Perhaps you have guessed this about me. But the ones I have, I hold dear and protect with all my strength. It was my belief that Mr. Herondale’s heart needed protecting from Mr. Lewis, lest he break it. At your word that such mannerisms are merely your brother’s nature, I must admit my grave mistake. You say Mr. Lewis loves Mr. Herondale, and I believe you. That I upset their union pains me, but please know, when I advised Mr. Herondale to move on and return to Idris, I did it out of love for a brother. 

‘You lay before me a second charge, concerning Ms. Camille Belcourt, and that one I cannot apologize for, except to say that I am sorry you believed what was told of our shared past. All the details Ms. Belcourt gave you, I cannot begin to imagine, but I can tell you the facts as I remember them. They are clear as crystal to me to this day as they encompass the greatest betrayal my life has yet known. 

‘Ms. Belcourt’s parents died when she was a girl, and my father took her in as a ward. He loved her; it’s true. But he did not know her true nature. She blew through her allowances, constantly coaxing more and more from my father, most especially in his late days, when he was sick. Ms. Belcourt gambled and drank, and I knew well what would happen to her inheritance once she had it. So after the death of my father, as nothing was written as proof, I denied Ms. Belcourt the money promised her on his deathbed. Not to be cruel, but to help her. I informed her that the money would be hers when she cleaned herself up. In a way, she was family, and I did not wish her to squander her means and be left forever penniless. In my mind, I was doing right by her and right by my father. But she did not see it that way. Behind my back, Ms. Belcourt courted my sister. I know now that it was her plan to marry Isabelle and gain her inheritance through marriage. But Ms. Belcourt did not know there was a hold on my sister’s own inheritance until her twenty-first birthday. After snaring her love and proposing, Ms. Belcourt discovered the truth and disappeared, breaking my sweet sister’s heart. My sister was only fifteen. 

‘For these reasons, I was shocked to see you in the company of such a person. I should have told you myself, and I am sorry I did not, for your assessment of me surely changed for the worst when Ms. Belcourt told you her version of events. I hate that you think ill of me, but I understand your reasoning. My only hope is that after reading the contents of this letter, you will hate me a little less. 

‘Lastly, I apologize for my behavior at the church. The last thing I want on this earth is to cause you pain. I shall not bother you with unreturned confessions again, and I hope you are not too distressed from the recieval of this letter. I wish, for you, only the best.’

His name was signed at the bottom of the page.

Magnus traced the name with his fingers, then folded the letter and returned it to its envelope. It was the first thing he placed in his suitcase when he began preparing for his journey home.

 

\--

 

There was much to think on when he returned to the usual fare of his life. With so much new information piled into his head, Magnus was more confused than ever. He felt compassion for Mr. Lightwood, but intense dislike for him, as well. Despite the explanations of the letter, the fact remained that he had broken Simon’s heart; so much was evident when Magnus returned home to find Simon already there. Though his brother attempted to wear a brave face, Magnus could see his broken heart in the way he held his shoulders, the tightness in his smiles, the glisten that frequently occupied his eyes. Simon joked and laughed with Clary, making merry and continuing on as normal, but Magnus knew his brother was pained. He spoke to them on the first night of his return, the pair sitting on the bed and passing Magnus’ flask back and forth. 

“I thought the first night he might come and see me,” Simon said, coughing into his hand at the alcohol’s burn. “I kept thinking, ‘maybe tomorrow he will come,’ but then weeks had passed with no visit or letter.” Simon sighed. “It’s okay. I’m over it. It’s not as if we were promised to one another.”

Magnus longed to tell his brother the contents of Mr. Lightwood’s letter. On multiple occasions, he nearly did. But in the end, he decided the news may not be welcome. It could be more difficult to hear that Mr. Herondale had loved Simon and that Mr. Lightwood had ruined his chances. And a small part of Magnus, so small he could not even detect it within himself, wanted to protect Mr. Lightwood from the scorn the whole family would place upon him if they heard what he had done. Mr. Lightwood was sorry for his actions. So Magnus listened to Simon pretend he was over Mr. Herondale, and he never told what he knew. 

But still, Simon was a shadow, and his laughs were an echo, and all the joy his presence used to bring Magnus was dulled. The house felt smaller than it had before, and Raphael’s bossing felt more annoying, and Luke’s constant absences felt less quirky and more neglectful. To Magnus, everything felt wrong. And he couldn’t blame it all on Simon’s broken heart.

Whenever he could escape, Magnus returned to the birch tree and read beneath it. He tried to lose himself in the pages, in the adventures and romance, but every sweet word made him cringe, and every happy ending made him scoff, and he closed one book after another, feeling worse than he had when he’d begun. His imaginary worlds weren’t making him happy like they used to do. It was as if the characters, with their arcs and growth, were mocking him. The magic they used to wield was absent, and all Magnus felt as he sat beneath the tree was sadness.

After several weeks of much of the same, it was Simon who suggested Magnus visit their uncles.

“When I wasn’t pining over Jace – I mean, Mr. Herondale – I actually had a pretty nice time. Uncle Valentine and Uncle Hodge know how to party, is all I’m saying.”

Simon had told Magnus this as he’d sat in the drawing room with his needlework in his hands. 

“What business could I possibly have in Idris?” Magnus asked him.

“You could buy new cloth, for one,” Simon said, slowly, like Magnus was an idiot. “They only have the best fabric shops in the country. And besides, the uncles are traveling right now anyway. You could meet them in the countryside and travel with them until they return to Idris. I know they’d like to have you along. They talked about how much you’d love insulting the new décor in their parlor.”

“Don’t you want me around?” Magnus asked. 

Simon snorted. “I told you, Mags, I’m over Ja - erm, Mr. Herondale. And if I weren’t, do you really think your presence would help cheer me up? You’ve been about as fun to be around as Mr. Raj.”

“I’m offended.”

“And I’m not joking,” countered Simon, not unkindly. “I don’t know what happened on your trip, but you’re obviously out of sorts and Raphael whirling his spoon at you all day isn’t going to help you feel better. Go be with our uncles. Drink too much wine. Spend too much money on clothes. Have a good time and come back as the brother who knows how to cheer me up. Not that I need cheering up.”

Magnus rolled his eyes at his brother, but he couldn’t ignore his plea. His trip to visit Ragnor was supposed to have been a time to clear his head and set himself right, and that hadn’t exactly worked out. Perhaps a trip through the countryside with his uncles would be what Magnus needed to make a fresh start. Surely he would not have any surprise encounters this time. His luck could not be so bad. 

He decided to write to his uncles that very evening, and after a few days, he had their answer. They were ecstatic to hear Magnus would like to join them. Magnus, whose bags were already packed in anticipation, put on his favorite traveling outfit, said his goodbyes and headed out. He would push all of the consuming thoughts from his head and replace them with fresh air and sunshine. Magnus was sure it would work. He was sure if he broke his daily pattern of melancholy he would start forgetting the expression on Mr. Lightwood’s face when he’d looked into his eyes and said, “No.”

 

\--

 

The countryside was quite agreeable! His uncles were full of mirth, wine, and compliments and Magnus had occasion to wear his best outdoorsy attire. After meeting Uncle Valentine and Uncle Hodge at an Inn outside of town, the three men took their time perusing the beautiful country in its summertime splendor. Magnus matched his eye shadow to the sky and his vest to the grass, and they would lounge on thick tree roots and munch on apples. His uncles did not try to pry into Magnus’ life. They did not ask why he had practically begged to come along, nor did they ask when he would be leaving. Their company was easy and enjoyable, and after two weeks of languid exploring, Magnus thought himself cured. Until, of course, Uncle Valentine said, “You know, I believe we are on the Lightwood estate.”

And then Uncle Hodge said, “Yes, I believe we are. I’d like to visit the manor while we’re here. I think it’s only a few miles east.”

Uncle Valentine said, “I’ve always wanted to see the inside.”

“Mr. Lightwood lives here?” Magnus asked, nearly choking on his bite of apple.

His uncle turned to look at him. 

“Why, yes. Do you know him?” asked Uncle Hodge. 

Magnus cleared his throat and threw the rest of his apple into the high grass. “I do.”

“Well, he shouldn’t be in the house, if that’s why your face is so red,” laughed Uncle Valentine. “He’s out traveling somewhere. House should be empty and open for guests.”

“Do we have to go see the house?” Magnus couldn’t help but ask. He could scarcely believe he was being put in such a position. 

“Do you have some sort of problem with Mr. Lightwood?” asked Uncle Hodge with a curious lift of his left eyebrow.

“No, no,” Magnus quickly said. “He’s just so…” Damn, Mr. Lightwood! Somehow he made Magnus forget how to speak even when he was nowhere near.

“Oh, Magnus,” his Uncle Hodge admonished with a smile. “Don’t be a sourpuss. I want to see the estate.”

“So do I,” agreed Uncle Valentine with a handclap of finality.

And so they did.

As they approached the gigantic manor, Magnus wondered when it was he had lost control of his life. How had another innocent excursion turned into a path that led straight to Mr. Lightwood?

The estate was named Raziel, and it was beautiful. A dozen angel statues lined the front path amidst rows and rows of flowers. There were fountains in the courtyard and bees buzzing happily. Even the air was lovely; it smelled sweet and summery and Magnus breathed deeply and let his eyes close for a moment, letting himself enjoy it before his nerves set in. This was where Mr. Lightwood lived, and whether or not he was at home, his presence would be stamped on every painting, every rug, every square foot of tile. 

As they walked up the marble steps to the front doors, Magnus looked askance at his all-too excited uncles and asked, one more time, if they were positive Mr. Lightwood was gone. They assured him with obvious amusement that he was, most certainly, without a doubt, absent. But when they knocked on the giant oak door, Magnus still held his breath. A paranoid piece of him thought Mr. Lightwood might open the door, and a masochistic piece of him hoped he would. But no, it was only the housekeeper, and she led them inside the enormous foyer with a pleasant smile. 

If Magnus thought Raziel was impressive from the outside, it paled in comparison to its interior. Even the Institute, which Magnus had thought the finest place he had ever stepped foot in, was nowhere near as large or looming. Every surface gleamed and decorative columns spiraled tall and majestic to the cavernous ceilings. A portrait of a young woman hanged proudly on the wall, catching Magnus’ eye. She was dark haired and lovely and could be no one but the sister Mr. Lightwood had mentioned in his letter. He looked around for a portrait of Mr. Lightwood and saw none. The housekeeper, who had been telling his uncles all about the history of the house, noticed Magnus’ roving eye and told him, if he wished to see a likeness of Raziel’s master, to follow her. 

Their party was led through an intricately carved door, into a room so dauntingly enormous that Magnus’ gasp echoed. It was filled with statues, gorgeous sculptures and pottery, assembled throughout the museum-like space, each with a plaque beneath that explained every artwork. Though a dozen things intrigued him, Magnus was drawn to the smallest piece that sat erect on a pedestal in the center of the room. It must have been what the housekeeper had meant to show them, because it was a perfect marble bust of Mr. Lightwood’s face. She walked behind Magnus as he stepped up to it. 

“The master is handsome, is he not?” she asked Magnus in a friendly manner.

Magnus gazed at the familiar features, made strange in their smooth whiteness, but he could not argue the likeness was striking. And so the bust was handsome. Of course it was. “He is,” he answered in a voice barely above a whisper. In a room so big, it felt as though it would be wrong to speak at a higher volume. 

“Do you know him, sir?” the housekeeper asked.

Did Magnus know Mr. Lightwood? He stared at the large eyes and full mouth before him, wishing the stagnant eyebrows could quirk, the way they were wont to do, into a small, disapproving furrow. Did he know him? “A little,” answered Magnus, but it felt like a lie. The man who lived in this house, who loved his little sister, who was a fierce protector of his friends…Magnus didn’t know that man at all. And he felt it a terrible shame.

Even as the footsteps of the others faded away, Magnus remained in front of the bust, entranced. It felt illicit, almost, finally being able to gawk at Mr. Lightwood’s face without disturbance or judgment. He enjoyed the moment for what it was, and then let it pass, turning from the likeness. It was then, when the trance was broken, that Magnus realized he was alone. More than that, he was lost. He strained to hear the housekeeper’s voice, or either of his uncles, but to no avail. But he did hear something, and he followed that sound with inquisitive ears.

It was the unmistakable sound of a piano forte being played to perfection, and it appeared to be coming from a faraway room. Magnus chased the melody through drawing rooms and studies, through the enviable library Mr. Lightwood had cultivated for his sister, until the noise was just beyond a single door, blessedly ajar. Magnus crept forward, wanting to see the soul who played so beautifully. Perhaps it was the housekeeper and his uncles; he knew Uncle Valentine could play a little. 

He pressed close to the crack in the door and peered inside the music room. A woman was seated at the bench, her back to Magnus, and all he could tell of her was the flow of long black hair, swaying slightly as she danced her fingers over the keys with expertise. It was the loveliest playing Magnus had ever heard. Suddenly, another body moved into Magnus’ view, someone tall and lean who placed their hand on the woman’s shoulder as she played. And though the new addition had his back turned away from Magnus, Magnus knew that back. It was Mr. Lightwood, and Magnus breathed in sharply upon seeing him, so unexpected was his apparition. Magnus covered his mouth to stifle the gasp, but he was already found out. Mr. Lightwood turned his head abruptly, just in time to see Magnus disappearing behind the door.

 

\--

 

Magnus ran from the house, his face a thousand shades of mortified, but he only made it as far as the first angel statue before he heard his name called out behind him. 

“Mr. Bane! Mr. Bane, please wait.”

Magnus willed his feet to stop and in a few moments, Mr. Lightwood caught up with him, stepping into his vision. The bust, Magnus suddenly decided, looked nothing like the man. No sculptor could capture what stood in front of him. As Mr. Lightwood opened his perfect mouth to speak, Magnus spoke first, loudly and with an audible tremble.

“I’m so sorry. My uncles said you weren’t here. I never would have come otherwise. I’m so sorry.”

“I was gone,” Mr. Lightwood said, “but returned earlier than planned.”

“I’m sorry,” Magnus repeated stupidly.

“It’s okay.” Unlike Magnus, Mr. Lightwood sounded calm. Could it be that after being rejected by Magnus and expunging himself through his letter, Mr. Lightwood had moved on from their brief acquaintance? Was he standing before Magnus healed? Was Magnus standing before him broken? “You look well,” Mr. Lightwood said after a pause.

“Thank you,” said Magnus. “As do you.” 

Mr. Lightwood was wringing his hands anxiously, and then opted to fold them behind his back. Maybe he was not as calm as Magnus had supposed. “Where are you staying?”

Magnus had to think a moment before he remembered the name of the country inn where he and his uncles had rooms. “The Full Moon,” he answered. “I should go there now, actually.” 

“You don’t have to leave.”

“I should,” argued Magnus, turning away. 

Mr. Lightwood touched his arm. Barely and only for an instant, but he touched him, and Magnus turned back to face him. “Let me escort you back.”

“Thank you, but I’m going to walk,” Magnus said. “I like to walk.”

A soft smile spread across Mr. Lightwood’s face. “I know.” 

He bowed to Magnus and Magnus bowed to Mr. Lightwood, and then he began his walk, trying very hard not to look over his shoulder. A good thing too, for he would have seen Mr. Lightwood standing right where he’d left him, watching over Magnus until his figure blurred into the scenery. 

 

-

 

Magnus was sweaty and the sun was setting when he arrived at the Full Moon. He made his way tiredly down the wood plank stairs into the crowded public dining room, eyes searching for his uncles. Finally he spotted them, sitting at the table nearest the window, and Magnus began his trudge through the other guests to reach them, but when he was about halfway across the room, he noticed another man talking with Valentine and Hodge. He squinted so he might see a bit better in the darkening room, and when he realized who it was, he felt his heart drop into his stomach. 

Mr. Lightwood. 

It was ALWAYS Mr. Lightwood. 

Magnus hid behind a patron and watched as Mr. Lightwood spoke longer with his uncles. There was a bit of laughing, a handshake, and then it appeared the clandestine meeting had commenced, for Mr. Lightwood was making his way through the crowd. Magnus careened around his hiding place, jerking the poor fellow around and making him spill his ale. But he remained undetected as Mr. Lightwood passed him. 

“Sorry,” Magnus mumbled, fixing the confused man’s rumpled shirt and sliding a coin in his hand to pay for the spilled drink. 

He tried to look casual as he took his seat at his uncles’ table, but they were so excited they hardly noticed the strained expression on Magnus’ face.

“Magnus,” crowed his Uncle Valentine, pushing a mug of spiced wine toward his nephew, “you missed Mr. Lightwood. He was just here a moment ago. What a kind young man.”

“Handsome young man,” Uncle Hodge added.

Uncle Valentine nodded gravely. “Terribly handsome. And apparently he’s back at Raziel after all. He’s invited us to spend the afternoon there tomorrow.” He looked at Magnus. “If that’s alright with you.”

Magnus took a deep sip of the wine, hoping it hid the fact that his hands were shaking. He swallowed it down, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and sighed. “It’s alright with me.” 

What choice did he have, when all paths led to Alec Lightwood?

 

\--

 

Of all the occasions for which Magnus had to dress himself, this was the most difficult. Nothing seemed right. Those trousers were too tight, that shirt was too flashy, his hair was too stiff, his makeup was too dark. Magnus let out a huff of frustration as he perused himself in the mirror and wondered: was he too much? Then he thought of Lady Maryse and her disdain of glitter, and the way Mr. Lightwood had defended him; Mr. Lightwood, whom had seemed so distraught when Magnus had gotten glitter on his coat at the ball. Magnus laughed and sipped from his flask. He knew for a fact he was too much for most people. But he liked that about himself. He admired his backside in the too-tight leather trousers and folded up the collar of his too-flashy shirt. He dipped his spiked tips in gold glitter and freshened the black liner around his eyes. Now he was too much, he decided with a pleased smile. Now he felt pretty.

When they arrived at Raziel, Magnus did not know what he expected, but he did not expect Mr. Lightwood to be waiting for them in the courtyard. He waltzed right up to them and bowed, his eyes locking with Magnus’.

“Good afternoon,” he said, and though he was speaking to all of them, Magnus felt it was a greeting just for him.

“Thank you for inviting us,” said Magnus.

Mr. Lightwood’s eyes caught the sunlight, flashing amber and gold. He spoke with Magnus’ uncles for a few minutes, directing them to the fishing pond around back (which was more like a fishing lake), and then he turned his full attention towards Magnus. “There is someone I’d very much like for you to meet, Mr. Bane, if you don’t mind.”

Unable to speak in the face of Mr. Lightwood’s eyes gleaming in the sunlight, Magnus nodded his agreement and without further ado, Mr. Lightwood led him into the house. They walked in silence, side by side, until they reached the music room. Mr. Lightwood pushed open the door and waved for Magnus to enter in front of him.

Upon entering, Magnus saw the dark haired woman again, only now that he could see her face, he realized she was more of a dark haired girl. The girl smiled broadly when she spotted Magnus and Mr. Lightwood, abandoning the sheet music she’d been trifling through to run up to Magnus and grasp his hands in hers.

“You must be Magnus,” she said with much excitement. 

“Mr. Bane,” said Mr. Lightwood, “this is my sister Isabelle.” 

Isabelle. The beautiful Isabelle that Mr. Lightwood had been writing to that uncomfortable day at the Institute. He had been writing a letter to his sister, and upon that realization, something inside Magnus untwisted. 

Magnus squeezed her hands and smiled. She was beautiful, like her brother, and even fiercer. “It’s wonderful to meet you,” he said, and he meant it. Like her brother’s bust, Isabelle’s portrait had done her no justice, and Magnus found himself wondering what their father must have looked like to have produced the likes of Mr. Lightwood and his sister.

“I’ve heard so much about you. Alec goes on and on. He said you were -” she leaned in close and whispered in Magnus’ ear “- quite magical.” 

“Izzy,” her brother growled warningly, but when Magnus looked up at him, he was smiling. 

“And that was only in his first letter about you,” Isabelle continued, ignoring Mr. Lightwood’s plea that she ‘please stop’.

Magnus was floating. Mr. Lightwood thought he was…magical? A strange sensation sparked in his gut. Had he written that much to his sister the day after they met at the ball, after he’d turned Magnus down and told Mr. Herondale he thought Magnus was a bit much?

“Magnus,” Isabelle cooed, tugging at his arm and whining in a tone that implied they had known each other for a long time. “Alec also told me you played the piano forte. Will you play with me?”

“Oh no,” Magnus laughed, looking back at Mr. Lightwood in disbelief. “I think your brother misinformed you.”

“I told her you played,” Mr. Lightwood defended, folding his arms casually over his chest as he leaned against the wall. “I never told her you played well.”

Magnus shook his head and let himself be dragged to the piano bench. Isabelle walked him through a simple duet while Mr. Lightwood leafed through a novel. Magnus’ playing was awful. Truly, truly awful. But Isabelle and Mr. Lightwood didn’t seem to mind, and after a moment of self evaluation, Magnus realized he didn’t mind either. 

 

\--

 

The day wore on. Isabelle joined Mr. Lightwood and Magnus as they strode across the grounds. Leisurely, they met up with Magnus’ uncles, and the five of them enjoyed fresh strawberries by the lake. Everything about the day was strange, but nothing about it was un-enjoyable. Mr. Lightwood’s company was consistently polite and well-meaning, and he spoke with more frequency than Magnus was accustomed. Perhaps it was his sister, energetic and clever, that brought out such tender sides to Mr. Lightwood. Perhaps it was the lovely weather or the delicious strawberries. Magnus did not dare to presume that he alone could be the reason behind Mr. Lightwood’s happiness.

When the sky began to turn pink, Isabelle hugged Magnus goodbye, whispering in his ear that she would see him soon, and then Mr. Lightwood offered them his carriage back to the Full Moon. They accepted, and after Mr. Lightwood helped Magnus step into the carriage, he climbed in behind him. 

“If no one minds, I would be delighted to dine with you before taking my leave,” Mr. Lightwood said. 

No one minded. 

 

\--

 

They were supping when the letter arrived which would finally succeed in breaking the spell of the day. 

The innkeeper walked up to Magnus, interrupting Uncle Valentine’s story about the time he’d lost his friend’s extremely valuable cup. 

“A letter for you, sir,” he said, slipping Magnus the folded note.

Magnus looked down and immediately recognized the handwriting. He glanced up at his dining companions. “It’s from Luke.” He worried the edges of the paper with his thumb.

Mr. Lightwood, who was accepting a refill of his wine from Uncle Hodge, smiled shyly at Magnus. “I don’t believe any of us will be offended if you read it now. I most certainly will not.”

Uncle Valentine clanked his mug against Mr. Lightwood’s and laughed loudly. “Go on, do as the gentleman says.” He scooted his chair closer to Mr. Lightwood’s and whispered loudly, “Did you know me and Luke used to have a thing?”

Magnus’ eyes widened and he looked at Mr. Lightwood, horrorstruck. But Mr. Lightwood only laughed and tilted his head with interest. If only to escape further embarrassment, Magnus opened the letter and quickly scanned his guardian’s words.

It was Mr. Lightwood who noticed first that something was amiss.

“Mr. Bane?” He put aside his wine and leaned forward, hands clasped together on the tabletop. The tone in his voice stilled even the raucous laughter from Magnus’ uncles. “What’s wrong?”

Magnus was afraid to speak, afraid his voice would crack if he tried, so he handed the letter to his Uncle Hodge and quickly excused himself from the table. He only made it to the stairs before Mr. Lightwood intercepted him, placing himself, once again, in Magnus’ path. He reached out a hand, almost touching Magnus’ arm, but then pulled it back. His eyes were wide with concern, which made the pit in Magnus' stomach deepen.

And because Magnus could not bear for Mr. Lightwood’s sympathetic voice to ask him again what was wrong, he forced out his own words, and they were appalling to hear aloud. “It’s my sister Clary,” he said, angered by the tears already threatening his eyes. “She has run away. With Ms. Belcourt. This is my fault. I should have told her of Ms. Belcourt’s true nature.”

Through Magnus’ wet eyes, he watched Mr. Lightwood’s face darken. And then he did touch Magnus, grasping his forearm, not roughly, but not gently either. He stared intently at Magnus, his eyebrows knitted together. He breathed in deep, let it out slow. “I must leave you now,” he rumbled. He squeezed Magnus’ arm once more before releasing it. “Forgive me.” And then he rushed from the dining room.

Magnus watched Mr. Lightwood ascend the steps until he could see him no longer. He touched his arm, where Mr. Lightwood had touched him, and wondered how he could have left him in such a state. Magnus wasn’t Mr. Lightwood’s responsibility, nor was the fate of Magnus’ sister, and yet…he hadn’t expected him to so swiftly remove himself from the issue. 

Overwhelmed, Magnus turned back to his uncles, who were pouring over the letter with clouded expressions. Magnus didn’t even like Mr. Lightwood. So what if they had spent a pleasant day in one another’s company? It made no difference in the grand scheme of their acquaintance. Magnus had more important things to contend with than whether or not Mr. Lightwood thought him worthy of aiding. He made way for his uncles with a pounding heart and determined mind. 

“I must go home right away,” he announced, collecting his coat from the back of his chair. “My family needs me.”


	7. Chapter 7

Raphael was a mess. According to Luke, he had thrown himself onto their bed upon news of Clary running away with Ms. Belcourt, and he hadn’t moved since. Magnus could hear his continuous moans of discontent all through the house, no matter where he was, and so he was in constant confusion over whether to feel annoyance or pity. 

At present, Magnus was gritting his teeth and trying to focus on the dough he was kneading. A dejected Simon stood at his side, sprinkling powder on the counter to keep the ball of dough from sticking. Both were trying valiantly to ignore the wails of woe echoing off the walls upstairs. The last few days had been much like living with a ghost. Though perhaps, Magnus had amended to Simon in a horribly failed attempt cheer to him, Raphael was a touch scarier than any mere specter. Certainly his attitude was worse and his cries of misery were more pathetic. Raphael moaned especially loud as Simon dug his hand in the sack of flour, and Magnus found himself longing for Luke’s return as much as Clary’s. Immediately upon Magnus’ arrival home, Luke had left to locate their wayward ginger, but the prospects were bleak and they all knew it. Raphael moaned again and Magnus felt his shoulders tighten. Luke would have known how to cheer their guardian. Or if not, at least he would have done a better job of it than Magnus and Simon.

“Even if Luke does find Clary,” Magnus sighed as he released his anger onto the innocent dough, mercilessly pounding his knuckles into its sticky mass, “if Ms. Belcourt hasn’t married her, Clary will be ruined.”

“And you don’t think Ms. Belcourt will marry Clary because of what Mr. Lightwood told you,” Simon said, summing up the conversation they’d had earlier. Magnus had confided in Simon one half of the contents of Mr. Lightwood’s letter, excluding the matter of the disastrous proposal and even more disastrous lack of one which had prompted its writing. Simon had been as shocked as Magnus to learn the truth of Ms. Belcourt. 

“She has no fortune,” Magnus said. “No inheritance to squander. So what would a villain like Ms. Belcourt want with her?”

“Other than the obvious,” Simon muttered. 

Magnus and his brother let out simultaneous sighs. 

“Poor Clary,” Simon whispered to himself. 

Magnus bit down his urge to voice his anger toward poor Clary for being so naïve. He remembered how he had also been taken in by Ms. Belcourt’s charms. If not for Mr. Lightwood, Magnus would have very likely still harbored a high opinion of the devious officer, as Clary surely must. If only Magnus had confided in his siblings. If only he had told them what Mr. Lightwood’s letter had conveyed when he’d had the chance. But what was done was done, and Magus had no choice but to deal with the consequences of his own naiveté. 

He finished kneading the bread and Simon covered it with a damp cloth. A trickle of sweat trailed down Magnus’ temple and he wiped it away with the back of his hand. 

Simon smiled crookedly at him and said, “You’ve got some flour on your forehead, Mags.”

Magnus excused himself to his bedroom and planted himself in front of the mirror, where he saw the white streak zipping across his brow. As there was no one to do it for him, he wiped it off himself.

 

\--

 

The longer Luke was away, the more distressed Raphael became. Magnus and Simon tried to comfort him, but he was inconsolable. 

“I’m sure Luke will be home soon,” Simon tried, and Raphael moaned unhappily.

“Clary won’t be that hard to find. He will spot her hair from a mile away,” Magnus said, and Raphael started praying.

Magnus tried to keep a confident mask on for Simon and Raphael, but after a week with no word, good or bad, it became harder to pretend. They may never get Clary back. Sadness settled on the house like a morbid blanket, but there was nothing a one of them could do but continue waiting.

If there was one upside to such familial upset, it was that Clary’s unsure fate provided an excellent distraction. Simon seemed less inclined to pine over Mr. Herondale because he was too busy fretting over Clary. And Magnus had thought hardly at all about Mr. Lightwood, except at night when he couldn’t sleep. Not that Magnus compared Simon’s love for Mr. Herondale to his definitely-not-love for Mr. Lightwood. Whatever it was Magnus felt for Mr. Lightwood, it was too confusing to label. 

Sometimes, in the moonlight of his bedroom, he would try to diagnose himself in regards to the man, but such pursuits were never successful, and then Magnus was stuck thinking about Mr. Lightwood all night, which was irritating. Rude, horrible Mr. Lightwood, who had been kind for one day and then disappeared; Magnus had not heard a word from him since he’d rushed from the inn, not that he’d expected it. Regardless, it was proof of Magnus’ overall dislike for the man when morning came and the sounds of Raphael weeping brought a sense of relief, because it meant he didn’t have to think about Mr. Lightwood anymore. At least, not while the sun was up.

 

\--

 

Magnus and Simon were mending clothes when Luke finally came home on the ninth day. Magnus was so surprised to see the carriage through the window that he stabbed his finger with his needle. He yelped, exchanged an anxious look with Simon, and then they both ran outside to greet their guardian.

Luke looked haggard, and he did not have Clary with him. He did, however, have a letter, and he handed it to Magnus as soon as they’d reached the carriage.

“What is this?” Magnus asked, but a glance at tiny cursive letters told Magnus before Luke had the chance. “Clary wrote to you?”

“Clary did write to me,” Luke said with a weary grin. “That is to say Mrs. Belcourt wrote to me.”

Simon gasped. “Mrs. Belcourt? They married? Magnus, what does she say?”

Magnus scanned quickly over his sister’s brief letter. “Ms. Belcourt and Clary married a few days ago,” he relayed to Simon. “She says she is having a marvelous honeymoon and will be home to visit soon.” Magnus glanced up to ask Luke a question, but he was already walking towards the house. He called after him. “Luke, how did this happen?”

Luke shrugged his broad shoulders. “Apparently someone paid her dowry.”

“Who could have done?” Magnus asked, bewildered. 

“I have a sneaking suspicion it might have been your Uncle Valentine, though I never would have guessed they had the funds.” He sighed heavily. “I don’t know for certain, but I must tell Mr. Santiago at once.” 

He left Magnus and Simon standing outside, holding Mrs. Belcourt’s letter, and after a few minutes, they could hear Raphael’s wailing; only now they were wails of triumph.

 

\--

 

Magnus could not wrap his head around why Ms. Belcourt had married Clary. It made no sense. Luke had offered no dowry, because he had never found them. But somehow they had known exactly where Luke was, as they’d sent him the letter. And the mystery of Clary’s dowry? Luke seemed too relieved it had been paid to bother investigating too far into its depths, but Magnus found the whole affair extremely suspicious. It made him feel a bit uneasy, but he supposed it was a better outcome than Clary being lost to them forever. Naturally, he did not relish the idea of her being married to Ms. Belcourt, but it was preferable to her being ruined by Ms. Belcourt. 

At least Raphael was not doubtful of the union; he was bright-eyed and laughing the day Clary arrived home with her new wife. She bounced from the carriage, all red curls and pink ribbons, and she kissed them all on the cheek, acting entirely as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. 

Magnus glared at Ms. Belcourt as she slinked from the carriage. She appeared none too delighted to be where she was, and when Clary grabbed onto her arm, she flinched. When the newlyweds passed Magnus, Ms. Belcourt tried to smile at him, but Magnus fixed her with a gaze of such ire, she shrank away, allowing Clary to drag her into the house. He had nearly thrown away the midnight blue eye shadow she had gifted him that very morning as he’d readied himself, but found it held more positive connotations than negative, for reasons unbeknownst to him.

Supper was a whirlwind of chatter. Clary sat beside Magnus, drinking her glass of wine indulgently. Across the table, Raphael was praising Ms. Belcourt’s officer status while Luke and Simon tried their best to enter the conversation, only finding success in adding a single word every five minutes or so.

“Ms. Belcourt is so spirited,” Clary crooned. Her cheeks were pink with drink. “She got me up in the middle of the night to be married! Can you imagine it, Magnus? It was so romantic.”

“I can’t imagine it, no,” Magnus replied, a bit miffed. Not once had she apologized for her behavior, and it began to seem more and more likely she never would.

“The wedding was simple but beautiful,” Clary continued, not noticing the way Magnus’ fingers tightened around his wine glass. “It was just the four of us, but I’ve always thought big weddings were needlessly extravagant anyway. So it was only the priest and Mr. Lightwood, but I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. It was perfect. I only wish you’d been there to fix my hair.”

Magnus set down his wine glass carefully and turned toward Clary, his eyes narrowing. “Who did you say was there?”

“Oh. Mr. Lightwood,” Clary repeated. She leaned close to Magnus, lowering her voice so as not to be overheard. “He’s the one who discovered us. My wife would hate for me to tell you, but Mr. Lightwood paid for the whole wedding. He even bought me my bouquet.”

“What?” Magnus felt a bit dizzy. 

“I don’t really understand all of that business, but I’m pretty sure Mr. Lightwood paid Ms. Belcourt a handsome sum?” She poked thoughtfully at her pudding. “I don’t know why you don’t like him, Magnus. He’s so generous. And handsome.” She laughed. “But don’t tell Ms. Belcourt I said that.”

Magnus was silent for the remainder of the meal, and then Clary and Ms. Belcourt made their leave. They were heading north with the Brooklyn regiment the next day, but Clary promised to write as often as a newly married woman could manage. Ms. Belcourt did not seem eager to embark upon their shared life, but Clary was exuberant and her goodbyes were affectionate, if brief. Then, as suddenly as she’d arrived, she was gone with a dainty wave of her hand. Raphael sighed dramatically, watching the dust from the carriage settle until Luke dragged him back inside.

“I have to say,” said Simon, walking with Magnus back to the house, “this has not at all turned out how I expected.”

Magnus wholeheartedly agreed.

 

\-- 

 

The knowledge of Clary’s well-being succeeded in calming the overall mood of the house, but Magnus remained overwhelmed, still suffering from a familiar, uneasy tension beneath his skin, distracting him from his chores and, according to Raphael, rendering him useless. On one such occasion, after Magnus had dropped a bowl of chopped vegetables in his daze, Raphael swatted at him with his spoon and bodily banished him from the kitchen for the rest of the afternoon. And so it was a slew of carrots and onions on the floor aided in bringing Magnus out of doors and heading for his birch tree at the precise time that two gentlemen had a mind to occupy the same spot. Thankfully, Magnus was obfuscated by the summer’s thick foliage, and he heard the familiar voices before he entered the clearing. 

“But what do I say? What if he refuses to speak with me alone?”

“He won’t refuse.”

Magnus crouched low, feeling like a fool peeking around a bundle of fortunately-placed leaves. There, in the clearing, was Mr. Herondale accompanied by Mr. Lightwood. At once, Magnus felt his face grow hot. The last time he’d seen Mr. Lightwood, he had grabbed Magnus’ arm, gazed intensely into his eyes, and then disappeared into the night with hardly a word. Magnus looked at him now and saw the face of the one who had saved not only his sister, but the reputation of his entire family. And goodness! How was he more beautiful every time Magnus laid eyes on him? 

Currently, as he stood beside his pacing friend, Mr. Lightwood’s attire was casual but fine, and his hair was amiably tumbled by the day’s breeze. His cheeks were a healthy pink and his irises were vividly gold. He carried his bow and arrows over one shoulder, but neither he nor Mr. Herondale looked eager for the sport. An amusedly patient expression was fixed on Mr. Lightwood’s face as he stood still, watching Mr. Herondale’s blond head bobbing back and forth in front of him. It was unusual to see Mr. Herondale so distraught. Magnus kept still and silent, too curious to feel more than a twinge of guilt for blatantly spying on a private moment.

“If he did refuse me, I could hardly blame him,” argued Mr. Herondale.

Mr. Lightwood placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder with enough force to stop his troubled pacing. The look he paid Mr. Herondale was one Magnus had never seen on his face before: a sympathetic smirk one gave only the closest of friends when they were acting ridiculous. Ragnor had given Magnus such a look on many occasions. It was surreal, seeing it on Mr. Lightwood’s face. It made him look so…touchable. Magnus flexed his fingers and smoothed them down his thighs. 

“Jace,” said Mr. Lightwood. He wrapped his hand around the back of Mr. Herondale’s neck, and warmth began pooling low between Magnus’ hips. “You love him, don’t you?”

Mr. Herondale looked up at his taller friend with determination, and Magnus could see why Simon loved him. “I love him, Alec. I wish I could explain it to you -”

“You don’t have to explain it to me,” Mr. Lightwood said. “You need only explain it to him.” He slapped the back of his hand on Mr. Herondale’s neck and then released him. “Now,” he said, straightening his back and extending his hand before him with a comical sweep, “let’s try again.”

Mr. Herondale cleared his throat, spun in a nervous little circle, and then approached Mr. Lightwood. He bowed low. “Mr. Lewis, it’s wonderful to see you again. You look wonderful.”

“No. Too many ‘wonderfuls’. Try again.”

“Mr. Lewis,” Mr. Herondale tried again, with an even deeper bow. 

Mr. Lightwood curtsied with a huge smile on his face. “Mr. Herondale.”

Mr. Herondale stumbled over himself before dropping to one knee. “Mr. Lewis, I would be honored -”

“What? Jace, no, you can’t just drop to your knees as soon as you see him,” Mr. Lightwood scolded, helping his friend get back on his feet. 

“But he makes me want to drop to my knees!” Mr. Herondale released an exasperated sigh and raked his fingers through his sunny mane. “Perhaps practicing is unnecessary. I do some of my finest work spontaneously, you know.”

“By all means, let spontaneity steer you,” agreed Mr. Lightwood. “I doubt an un-orchestrated proposal will sway him in either direction. He will either know at once or not at all, in spite of your inevitable fumblings.” Mr. Lightwood looked at his shoes and adjusted the bow on his shoulder. “All the practice in the world would fail you if you never had his love to begin with.”

Mr. Herondale touched his shoulder gently and the friends exchanged sad smiles. 

“Go to him, Jace,” whispered Mr. Lightwood. “You have his love. I do not doubt it.”

“Alec -” began Mr. Herondale, but Mr. Lightwood shook his head.

“Worry not,” he said. “I will be fine. Go seek your beloved and leave me to my slings and arrows.”

With a final view of Mr. Herondale bringing Mr. Lightwood into a tight hug, Magnus backed slowly away from his hiding place, treading meticulously so as not to snap a single twig. He retreated in this manner for several yards, until he was certain his footsteps would not be heard, though how the deafening sound of his heartbeat did not give him away, he did not know. When he was satisfied with the ground he had covered and was certain none would hear, he made a mad dash for his house. He ran as fast as he could, through the trees and down the stone path until he slammed through the back door of the kitchen. 

“SIMON!” he yelled.

Raphael shrieked and his spoon went flying above his head. “Magnus Bane, are you trying to kill me?”

He ignored his guardian, running past him straight to the stairs, where he smacked headlong into his brother. 

“Magnus, what’s wrong?” Simon asked in bewilderment. “You have a crazy look in your eyes!”

Magnus grabbed Simon’s shoulders, trying to catch his breath. “Simon, Simon, Mr. Herondale is back.”

“What?” gasped Simon. His eyes were huge.

“I just saw him in the woods with Mr. Lightwood,” Magnus panted. “And he was practicing his proposal. Simon, he’s on his way here now!”

Simon just stared, like he didn’t understand. 

“Mr. Herondale is proposing?!” Raphael hollered from the bottom of the stairs. “Why are you two standing around? Simon, put a comb through your hair! Magnus, straighten the drawing room! Dios! I think I hear his horse outside! Quickly, quickly!”

The next sixty seconds were a hectic flurry of hair pulling, pillow fluffing, and collar straightening, and as Mr. Herondale knocked on the front door, Raphael threw Simon down onto the sofa and tossed a bundle of threads at Magnus. Simon looked over at Magnus, horrified, and Raphael made a cross over his chest before heading for the door. A moment later, Mr. Herondale entered the room. Magnus and Simon both stood, while their guardian lingered dauntingly behind their new guest like a vulture. And true to his nature, Raphael wasted no time in humiliating everyone in the room before pleasantries could even be exchanged.

“Doesn’t Simon look handsome, Mr. Herondale?”

Though Simon’s cheeks were hasty to turn blood red, Mr. Herondale was unaffected; he took a step forward. His eyes were glistening. “Quite.” He turned to Raphael. “This may be forward of me, but I wonder if I might have a moment alone with Mr. Lewis?”

Raphael smiled demurely at Mr. Herondale, while snapping his fingers at Magnus. “Of course, Mr. Herondale. Take all the time you need.”

Magnus glanced back at Simon, who was so preoccupied with gazing at Mr. Herondale that he didn’t even know Magnus was still in the room. Silently, Magnus headed for the door, taking a moment to smile at the nervously indomitable looking Mr. Herondale before leaving. Raphael closed the door slowly, and the last thing Magnus saw was Simon’s awestruck face as Mr. Herondale jerked forward and fell to one knee.

“I knew he loved Simon all along. I knew it,” Raphael whispered knowingly as he pressed his ear against the door. 

Magnus smiled at his guardian. Though Clary and Simon were undeniably proving to have highly enjoyable weeks, it was possible Raphael was having the best week of all.

 

\--

 

Mr. Herondale proposed, of course, and Simon said yes, and after a full evening of Raphael filling and refilling everyone’s champagne glasses, Magnus was splayed on his bed. He had been laughing for at least five minutes straight, mostly because Simon kept laughing and couldn’t seem to stop. His brother held his stomach as he flopped beside Magnus, his grin so wide it looked borderline painful.

“Oh, Mags,” he breathed. “I might die from happiness before the wedding.” He propped himself up on one elbow, his face glowing from the light of their shared candle. “Did you know he never even knew I was in Idris? I cannot believe I wasted so much time doubting his love for me and being miserable.”

“You’re happy,” Magnus said softly, reaching out to squeeze his brother’s hand. 

Simon sighed, and it was a blissful, contented sound. “I think I am the happiest I have ever been. The only thing that would make me happier would be if you found someone to love as much as I love Mr. Herondale. Jace, I mean.”

Magnus rolled his eyes. “Perhaps Mr. Raj has a friend.” 

Simon’s laughter resumed and he rolled onto his side. Magnus blew out the candle on the bedside table and settled against the pillows, facing away from his brother. He could still feel the mattress shaking slightly from Simon’s chuckles, and it truly warmed his heart to know his dearest sibling was so supremely happy. But the reason for Simon’s happiness stung at Magnus’ heart, and he lay in the darkness with busy thoughts. 

Simon was happy because Mr. Herondale had returned to him. Clary was happy because Ms. Belcourt had married her. Both of these events, Magnus knew, had been accomplished because of Mr. Lightwood. He was behind it all. When he had rushed from the Full Moon, it had been to find Ms. Belcourt and Clary, and then, evidently, he had promptly returned to Mr. Herondale and convinced him to return to the Institute to marry Simon. All without a word to Magnus about what he had done. It was a kindness, the like of which Magnus had never seen. How could he have done such favors for Magnus, who had slashed at his character at every opportunity, refused him, accused him, and hated him? 

Magnus choked on the thought. He hated Mr. Lightwood. 

Didn’t he? Didn’t Magnus hate Mr. Lightwood? He certainly disliked the way he felt when he was near: the blushing, the manic pulse, the harried breath. Such unpleasant reactions, how else could it be explained but that Magnus carried for the man an intense dislike? Hatred, then, must be the applicable feeling. Magnus hated how Mr. Lightwood’s eyes were nonsensical shades of gold and green. He hated the profile of his nose, and his beautiful mouth. He hated the smooth column of his neck and the dusting of dark hair across his chest. He hated his narrow waist and long, lovely legs, the way he held his bow aloft and the intensity of his eyes when he threatened to use it. Magnus hated Mr. Lightwood’s voice when he said his name, and the way he’d held his hand to help him into the carriage. He hated the way Mr. Lightwood had proposed, and he hated the pain on his face when Magnus had refused him. He hated the way he’d felt since that day, and hated every day since they’d met that he hadn’t seen him. He hated sitting beside him and not being able to touch him. But most of all, worse than anything else, Magnus hated that Mr. Lightwood thought he hated him, when really, miraculously, magically, Magnus did not hate him at all. In truth, he sparked to think of him. 

The moon was high in the sky and its light flooded the room. Beside Magnus, Simon was already asleep. Magnus eased himself from the bed, wrapping his sleeping robe around his shoulders, and walked softly to the window. His aim was to ponder morosely and stare at the night sky, but movement on the road below caught his eye. On the little dusty road leading to their house, a grand-looking carriage was being pulled by a grand-looking horse. When it stopped, a dark figure hurried from the carriage’s confines and began a quick trot towards the front door. Magnus squinted at the strange person, but could not discern them in the darkness. But Magnus was not long in the dark as to the mystery guest’s identity, for a few seconds later several loud bangs were applied to the front door knocker.

Simon woke abruptly, as did, Magnus was sure, the rest of the house. A few seconds later, they all ran into one another at the top of the stairs, Raphael confused and still a bit drunk with his nightshirt hanging from one shoulder, Luke with a candle and a worried expression. 

“Expecting anyone?” he asked Magnus and Simon. Both shook their heads adamantly. 

Luke grunted and led the way down the steps, Magnus following right at his heels. The knocking continued, growing louder and more fervent until Luke threw open the door with a huff of annoyance.

Uninvited and uncaring, Lady Maryse Lightwood strolled into their foyer as if she owned it. 

Magnus could hardly believe his eyes and wondered if he had fallen asleep after all. “Lady Maryse!” 

The shock in his voice must have been evident, because the woman turned her dark, cold glare upon him and said, “Do not play the innocent lamb, Mr. Bane. You know why I am here, I think.”

Simon, Raphael, and Luke all turned to Magnus, who was shaking his head in confusion. “I have no idea what your ladyship is talking about. But if you’d like an audience with me, you may have it.”

Lady Maryse clicked her tongue and glided past Magnus, walking into the sitting room, again with no invitation. Magnus looked back at his family to shrug apologetically and offer an explanation, but they were already retreating to wait out the odd scene elsewhere. It seemed as though they were as put off by Lady Maryse as Magnus, only Magnus did not have the luxury of hiding. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, which was freshly washed, silky and straight. He braced himself as much as he could considering the odd circumstances and followed Lady Maryse into the room, closing the door behind him. 

“May I ask why you have called upon me at such an hour, Lady Maryse?” Magnus asked. “I was not lying when I said I did not know.”

“You are a snake, Mr. Bane,” Lady Maryse spat, sticking a finger out at Magnus. “I have heard rumors about you, and I know what you plan.”

Magnus was frozen with shock for a moment, and then he cocked his head, tossing a lock of hair from his eyes, and returned the woman’s derisive glare. “Pray, what reptilian plan could I be hatching that would bring you to my doorstep in the middle of the night?”

“I have heard from reliable sources that you are planning to become engaged to my son.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Magnus replied. His heart began to race.

“If you think a wretched creature like you could ever be good enough for my Alec, you are gravely mistaken. My son is an important man, and he will not be brought low by a fortune-hunting downworlder of insignificant birth. Your flirtations are fruitless, Mr. Bane, and I find your behavior atrocious. Alec Lightwood would never marry you.”

“I’m sorry,” Magnus said, trying to keep his voice calm and failing just a bit. “If you think this is a rumor, why did you come all the way here to berate me?”

“So I could hear you disprove it!” the Lady said, nearly yelling. “Will you disprove it? Are you engaged to my son?”

Magnus was so angry he was shaking. How had he ever cast Mr. Lightwood as a villain in his mind when it was clear his mother was the demon? It hurt to utter a single word to make her happy, but Magnus could not deny it was the truth. “I am not engaged to your son,” he answered stiffly.

“And can you promise me you never will be?” Lady Maryse asked. 

Magnus opened his mouth to promise her, but stopped himself. He took a deep breath that did nothing to quiet his nerves, and then said, quite softly, “I cannot promise that.”

“What do you mean you cannot promise that? Why can’t you?!” Lady Maryse’s face was red and her dark eyebrows were screwed irately on her forehead, and though they favored one another superficially, Mr. Lightwood had never looked at Magnus in such a horrid way. They were nothing alike, not at all, Magnus realized, and the thought made Magnus’ heart beat harder. “If you think you will get your claws in my son,” continued Lady Maryse, “you are mistaken.”

“If you think,” Magnus countered, stepping toward the awful woman until he was looking down at her, “that I will allow you to stand in my home and insult me for even one minute longer, it you who is mistaken. I have answered your question, though what business it is of yours, I can’t imagine.”

Lady Maryse gawked at him. “How dare you.”

Magnus shook his head and walked past her, opening the door. “You must leave. Now.” He opened the front door and glared with all the venom he could muster. “Get out.”

Lady Maryse whisked by him with a sneer, and Magnus slammed the door shut on her fleeing figure. As soon as the door closed, his family was upon him, scurrying out from the kitchen with outraged expressions.

“What on earth was that about?”

“Magnus, are you okay?” 

“Mags? Mags, what’s going on?” 

“Not now, please!” Magnus exclaimed, turning from the worried faces and running up the stairs. “Please leave me alone,” he pleaded as he threw himself into his room and shut the door behind him. He rushed to the window in time to see Lady Maryse’s coach speeding into the distance, and then he fell to his knees, his face in his hands.


	8. Chapter 8

Whose life was he living that Lady Maryse would stomp into his house and accuse him of such things? The audacity! The nerve! Magnus was infuriated and miserable, and he could not stop the rush of adrenaline shooting through him. His skin felt like it was on fire. He couldn’t breathe. The moonlight mocked him through the window, and Magnus thought maybe, just maybe, if he went outside to look at it, the air would find its way easier to his lungs and his heart would begin to calm. Magnus hugged his sleeping robe tighter around himself and opened the latch to his window. 

Ragnor would never stop laughing if he could see Magnus in that moment, straddling the second story window and shimmying down the lattice until his feet hit the ground. He supposed he could have gone through the front door, but he did not want to face the others; he did not want Simon to ask him what had sent him spiraling into such a fit. Magnus didn’t have fits. He was cool and collected. He read dramatic books; he did not act them out himself. 

But the scene with Maryse Lightwood had shaken him, and her venomous words resonated in his core. What had kept him from denying her request? What kept him from easing her worry? Surely Mr. Lightwood would never ask for Magnus’ hand again, not after how Magnus treated him, so why had he not said, simply, ‘I will never be engaged to him’? The idea that Lady Maryse had even considered such a rumor a possibility was preposterous, and yet…. 

Magnus kept playing the image in his head, over and over again: Mr. Lightwood standing in the rain, dripping wet, his eyes wide and vulnerable, his expression when Magnus had turned him down, the slump of his shoulders as he’d walked slowly back into the torrent. Magnus held a hand to his stomach; the memory made him ill, dredged up a physical response of such unhappiness he thought he might be sick in the grass. He paused in his walking to try and take a deep breath. No matter how Magnus might feel about Mr. Lightwood now, he could not imagine a universe where his behavior could be excusable, and where Mr. Lightwood would ever deem him worthy. So Lady Maryse was right all along. Her son was so much better than he. But Magnus’ confusing feelings were no matter. The swiftest way through his disconcertion was to accept it and stalwartly move on. Fix his makeup and eradicate Mr. Lightwood from his mind, for his presence there was all-consuming. 

The night air was balmy and well lit by the moon, almost full, but not quite, and Magnus hurried down the stone path, not slowing until he reached the trees. The moonlight shot through the treetops in white beams, and the sight was a thin comfort to Magnus’ mood. Seldom had he walked the forest after dark and the unfamiliar shadows in such a familiar place was eerily beautiful to behold. He breathed in deep, willing his pulse to slow. His birch tree was just ahead. He would sit beneath it and find the stillness he sought. 

A breeze moved through him, summer sweet, feathering his hair and teasing at the hem of his robe. Magnus shivered despite the warmth and extended his hand to part the path to the birch. Leaves tickled his face as he stepped into the clearing, and then, like magic, there he was. 

Across the small woodland field, drenched in a patch of silver moonlight, Mr. Lightwood stood. He was dressed in his nightshirt with an ankle length robe about him, like Magnus. His hair was mussed and his throat was exposed, and Magnus could do nothing but look. Of course Mr. Lightwood would be there, in the middle of the night, as if summoned by Magnus’ sheer desire to see him. Of course this time, and every time, all paths led to Mr. Lightwood. The wind picked up again and Magnus’ robe fluttered open, but he could not bother his hands to move from where they clutched across his heart. 

Mr. Lightwood was not rendered so paralyzed, and after a quiet moment of gazing at Magnus in surprise, he began to walk into the drifting nighttime breeze, his clothes billowing behind him, ruffling his hair. Magnus was breathless as he watched the man cross the clearing. Mr. Lightwood walked straight toward him until he stood only an arm’s length away. Close enough to touch.

He gazed down at Magnus with a set brow and soft mouth, moon rays casting angelic highlights across the sharp planes of his face. He licked his lips, and though Magnus’ attention could seldom be drawn from his face, he recognized the nervous shuffling of his feet, and heard the low rumble of his throat being cleared. 

“Mr. Bane,” said Mr. Lightwood, and his voice was so gentle and deep, Magnus’ eyes fell shut in enjoyment of the sound. He kept them closed for the length of a sigh, and when he opened them, Mr. Lightwood was still there, and he was fixing Magnus with an indiscernible look. His eyes were large and dark as a doe’s and his lips appeared slightly swollen, as if he had very recently been biting them. It was a bewitching face, and Magnus was spellbound by its tender command. He had always been.

“Mr. Lightwood,” he whispered, for he could not find the strength to raise his voice. Standing in the dark, in the woods, with Mr. Lightwood, was surreal as a dream, and Magnus feared disturbing the illusion by speaking at full volume. “I could not sleep.”

“Neither could I,” replied Mr. Lightwood with a shake of his head. Then, to Magnus’ delight and disbelief, he rolled his eyes. “My mother.”

The blatant annoyance in Mr. Lightwood’s voice infused Magnus with the courage to strengthen his words. “Yes, I fear I must also blame my sleeplessness on your mother. She came to see me tonight.”

Mr. Lightwood was frowning. “I know.” He took a step forward. “I’m so sorry. She had no right. However,” he paused, and Magnus watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed, “I must confess, her return to me only a few minutes ago filled me with a hope I thought impossible. A hope that you do not – do not loathe me completely.”

Loathe Mr. Lightwood? Though Magnus had told himself the exact thing since the night they had met, in that precise moment Magnus knew no words had ever been less true. Looking at Mr. Lightwood now, he did not see the man who had scorned him at the ball, but someone else entirely. “I know what you have done,” Magnus said, his head tilted up to look at the man in front of him. “I must thank you, for Clary, and Simon. You have saved my family.” You have saved me, Magnus wanted to say, but he was afraid.

Mr. Lightwood blinked, looking taken aback for a moment as though he’d never expected a thank you for any of it. Then he tilted his head, and a strand of hair swept across his brow. Magnus’ hands itched to comb it from his eyes. 

“You must know,” said Mr. Lightwood, “everything I have done has been for you.”

Magnus opened his mouth to speak, but Mr. Lightwood took another step forward; they were only a hairsbreadth apart. 

“Please do not be offended when I tell you my feelings for you have not changed,” Mr. Lightwood began, speaking quickly. “I have tried to respect your answer, and if you tell me now that your feelings have not changed then I will leave you alone, I promise. But if there is even a chance that I do not disgust you, then I must tell you. Magnus.” His breath was rapid. “Knowing you has changed my whole world. You are the most beautiful, brilliant, extraordinary man I have ever met and I – I – I love you. I love you and I never wish to part from you again. M-Magnus, I - ”

Without another thought or second guessing, Magnus closed the distance between them and smoothed his hand up Mr. Lightwood’s chest. Suddenly, he was so close, so intoxicatingly close, and the sensation made him bold. Magnus lifted his other hand and cupped Mr. Lightwood’s cheek. It was warm beneath his palm and rough with the promise of stubble. 

“Alexander,” he whispered. He had to lift onto his tiptoes, but only slightly, and then he was pressing his lips to Mr. Lightwood’s.

It was a light, gentle kiss, but it sent sparks through Magnus’ whole body, and he trembled from the force of it. When Mr. Lightwood pulled away, he kept their faces close and, after an exhausted sigh, rested his forehead against Magnus’ forehead. Mr. Lightwood closed his eyes, so Magnus allowed himself the same indulgence, and he just breathed. They breathed together. 

And finally, finally that piece buried deep inside of Magnus surfaced, and he wrapped his arms around Mr. Lightwood’s waist. He opened his eyes and was astonished anew by thick black lashes curled around golden eyes. 

“I think I have been in love with you for a long time,” Magnus whispered.

Mr. Lightwood smiled, and then grabbed him, raking his fingers through Magnus’ hair and kissing him deeply. 

 

\--

 

Magnus paced outside his guardian’s study. He could hear only murmurs of their conversation, and even the vaguest rumblings of Mr. Lightwood’s voice made his pulse flutter. 

After their meeting in the woods, Magnus and Mr. Lightwood had reluctantly separated (at Mr. Lightwood’s vehemence that it would be for the last time), and they had agreed to reconvene in the morning hours when their sudden announcement of a union would be less overwhelming to Magnus’ family. After all, they had not even known he’d left the house; how could he return with a fiancé in tow?

So they had kissed goodbye, and kissed again, and then kissed once or twice more, and then Mr. Lightwood had walked Magnus back down the stone path and kissed him one final time by the kitchen door, promising to return at the earliest possible hour. Magnus had floated back to his room and watched Mr. Lightwood’s retreating figure, tall and dark and his. Impossibly his. He slid into bed, glad that Simon had returned to Clary’s old room to sleep, and lay awake thinking, trying to suss out what exactly had just transpired. 

He had kissed Mr. Lightwood and confessed to a love he had buried so deep, he hadn’t even known it to exist. His rapid heartbeat, his strained breathing, his all around discombobulation in his presence…Magnus had been in love the whole time and never known it. He had been so consumed with the idea of hating Mr. Lightwood, he had not allowed himself time to see the alternative. But it blared before him now, bright and full to bursting. 

Magnus’ fingertips ghosted across his lips as he remembered the feeling of Mr. Lightwood’s mouth on his own. He longed for the feeling again and remained sleepless for the rest of the night. 

And now Magnus paced, straining his ears to hear the barest hint of a word. He tugged at his hair to busy his idle hands. For such an important morning, Magnus had assembled his visage with especial care. He wore his snuggest leather trousers so as to show off the best curves of his rump, and his purple shirt shimmered fluidly beneath a trim, polka dotted waistcoat. His hair was spiked high and his eyes were lined and glittering. He had omitted the gloss for his lips however, as he was hopeful there would soon be more kissing that would possibly, if he were lucky, last for the rest of his life. 

So Magnus looked his honest best as he paced, waiting for news of his fate, but the comfort that his appearance was pristine did nothing to mollify his anxiety. Only when the study door opened and Mr. Lightwood stepped through it with a dazzled sort of grin upon his face did Magnus begin feeling the slightest bit back to normal. 

Mr. Lightwood walked up to him and took his hand like it was his to take, and it was, Magnus reminded himself with a flush. It was.

“Magnus, come in here please,” called Luke, and Magnus squeezed Mr. Lightwood’s hand before he let it go and entered the study. He caught a glance of Mr. Lightwood’s smile before he shut the door, and so his own smile was broad and sweeping when he turned to face his seated guardian.

Luke had his legs crossed and his fingers steepled beneath his chin. He appraised Magnus with curious eyes. “I thought you never wished to marry.” 

Magnus moved to stand before his guardian. Still, he could not shake his ridiculous smile, and he detected a minute tremor in his fingers where Mr. Lightwood’s fingers had just been pressed. “I had not,” he agreed, a bit breathless. 

Luke arched an eyebrow. “And yet Mr. Lightwood, someone I would have sworn you detested, has asked me for your hand in marriage, and here you stand before me, looking like you do.”

“How do I look?” 

“Like you are in love,” said Luke. His head was tilted in puzzlement.

Magnus felt his eyes burning and fanned at his face before the tears could fall and smudge his makeup. “Oh, Luke,” he began, struggling for words to explain the inexplicable. How to convey the depth of his feelings in mortal terms? “I thought,” he continued slowly, “I knew myself. I thought I would be happy, being alone and never needing anyone. But I – I was so wrong. Mr. Lightwood has…unlocked something inside me. He is so…” Magnus could not stop them and three tears rolled rebelliously down his cheek, which he promptly dabbed away with his handkerchief. “He is everything I have been waiting for and never hoped to have.” Magnus laughed; he couldn’t help it. “I love him. He has been impossible and rude and ridiculous, but so have I, and I love him.”

Luke turned his head away for a moment and wiped at his eyes. When he turned back, he was smiling. “I will miss you,” he said, and he stood from his chair to wrap Magnus in a hug.

When he left the study a few minutes later with shining eyes, Mr. Lightwood was waiting for him. He came to him at once and Magnus grabbed his hand and twined their fingers together.

“He gave his permission,” Magnus said. “I am yours for the taking, Mr. Lightwood, if you still want me.”

Mr. Lightwood blushed and leaned close to whisper in his ear. “I will always want you.”

 

\--

 

Magnus was sitting. It was nighttime and the stars were bright, brighter in Idris, somehow, than they had ever been in Brooklyn; they twinkled in the long reflection of the lake, stretching dark and lovely across Raziel’s grounds. He had long ago rid himself of his coat and vest, and his silk shirt was loosely buttoned. His hair was tousled from fingers running through it again and again. Around his neck was a necklace, around his wrists were bracelets, and on his finger was a single ring, just one. Magnus twisted the gold band around his finger. He had been fascinated by the small piece of jewelry all day, and night had him feeling equally mesmerized. 

Beside him sat Mr. Lightwood with a ring of his own, and he was looking at Magnus.

“How are you this evening, husband?” he asked.

Magnus crinkled his nose. “Is that what you will call me from now on?” He pushed his foot forward to press beneath his husband’s thigh and was rewarded with a warm hand on his ankle.

“I will call you whatever you like,” said Mr. Lightwood. His hand smoothed up Magnus’ leg until cinching around the underside of his knee, and then he pulled Magnus closer. 

Magnus admired the hollow point at the base of Mr. Lightwood’s throat for a moment before remembering that he was allowed to touch him, and then he reached out his hand and caressed over firm collarbone and up the smooth expanse of elegant neck. He ended up with his hand in Mr. Lightwood’s hair, fingers twirling in the slightly curled hairs at his nape.

Mr. Lightwood wore a dreamy expression and kept wetting his lips with the tip of his tongue. Magnus hummed thoughtfully. Even after weeks of engagement, he was still not used to being able to freely gaze at Mr. Lightwood’s face. Its beauty still perplexed him and left him with a heady feeling.

“When you are feeling extravagantly possessive or particular annoyance, you may call me ‘husband,’” decided Magnus, and Mr. Lightwood laughed. “But for everyday you should call me Magnus.”

“Magnus,” Mr. Lightwood repeated softly. His eyes sparkled golden in the torchlight, and his grin was broad and dizzying. Magnus wondered briefly if perhaps marrying Mr. Lightwood would ultimately prove detrimental to his health. Surely one day he would trip over himself in his efforts to never stop gazing at him, and so do himself great damage. But, he reasoned, it was not as though a twisted ankle would not be worth the honor and deep seeded pleasure Magnus felt when distracted by his husband’s face. 

“And for special occasions,” Magnus continued with a sly smile, finishing the distance to Mr. Lightwood’s lap and brazenly climbing into it, “when you are feeling stupidly, deliriously happy, you may call me Mr. Lightwood.”

Mr. Lightwood settled his hands around Magnus’ waist, now planted firmly in his lap, a leg strewn on either side of his hips, and then his fingers began tracing up and down Magnus’ thighs. “Alright,” he said, looking quite serious. “How are you this evening, Mr. Lightwood?” He moved forward, pressing a feather-light kiss to Magnus’ temple. There went Magnus’ pulse again. Maybe Mr. Lightwood would be what killed him, but what a way to die! 

“Mr. Lightwood,” his husband whispered again, kissing his forehead and pulling a pleased sound from Magnus. “Mr. Lightwood.” He kissed his cheek, and then his hand hooked beneath Magnus’ chin, lifting his head to face him. “Mr. Lightwood,” he said once more, and then he kissed Magnus on the mouth, gently, slowly, but with the promise of more soon to come.

When he finally broke the kiss, Magnus caught a glimmer of sparkle, a single dot of glitter that had journeyed from Magnus onto Mr. Lightwood’s face, right above his lip. For a moment, he thought of trying to brush it away, but then he decided he rather liked it. A little sparkle suited his husband, and besides, a touch of glitter never hurt anyone. 

He grasped Mr. Lightwood’s head in his hands and pulled him in for another kiss.


End file.
